"That’s rough, brother." His voice carried just the right note of sympathy, but something about it felt off. Too practiced. Too smooth. Did he know? "But maybe she was trying to protect you. Or herself."
"Protect me how?"
"Think about it—a pregnant woman in our world is a target. Maybe she was scared of what that would mean. For her, for the child." A pause, then: "For you."
The reasonable explanation should’ve made me feel better. Should’ve cut through the betrayal festering in my chest. Instead, it made something cold settle in my stomach.
"You think I can’t protect my own family?"
"I think you’re under more pressure than you’ve ever been. The warehouse attacks, the security breaches, the questions about your leadership. Adding a pregnant woman to that equation..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang.
"You sound like you think she’s a liability."
"I think she’s a complication you don’t need right now. But Roman, she’s also carrying your heir. That changes everything."
Your heir.The words should have filled me with pride, with determination. Instead, they felt like chains wrapping around my chest.
"I need to think," I said.
"Where are you going?"
"St. Brigid’s."
"Roman—"
I hung up before he could finish whatever warning he was about to give me.
The church was empty when I arrived, just rows of wooden pews facing the altar where candles flickered like dying stars. I’d come here as a child with my father, back when the weight of the Creed name felt like armor instead of a noose.
I slid into the back pew, the worn wood cool beneath my hands. The silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional hiss of wax hitting stone as the candles burned down.
Pregnant.
The word echoed differently here, surrounded by stained glass and shadows. Here, it didn’t sound like betrayal. It sounded like a possibility. Like hope.
My child would grow up in this world—my world—where trust was currency and betrayal was death. Where love was weakness and family was leverage. Where even the people closest to you could sell you out for the right price.
What kind of father would I be? What kind of man did I want my child to see when they looked at me?
The questions circled in my mind like prayers I didn’t know how to say. I’d built my entire life around control—controlling the business, controlling my men, controlling every variable that could be used against me. But I couldn’t control this. Couldn’t control the way Cassie had wormed her way under my skin, couldn’t control the fact that she was carrying something precious and vulnerable and mine.
And I sure as hell couldn’t control the way she made me want to be better than what I was.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the church, leather soles clicking against stone. I didn’t turn around—didn’t need to. I knew that walk, knew the weight and rhythm of it.
Declan slid into the pew beside me, his pale eyes reflecting the candlelight as he studied my profile.
"I’m sorry to bother you."
I didn’t respond, just kept staring at the cross above the altar. My father had brought me here after my first kill, told me that even men like us needed forgiveness sometimes. I’d been seventeen and covered in another man’s blood, and I’d sat in this same spot wondering if there was enough forgiveness in the world for what I’d become.
"You know what your father would say about this situation," Declan said quietly.
"Do I?"
"Children make you vulnerable. Give your enemies something to use against you." He leaned back against the pew, his voice taking on that dangerous calm I’d learned to recognize. "Patrick would’ve solved this situation quietly. Before it became a problem."
The implication hit me like ice water. I turned to look at him for the first time since he’d arrived, noting the careful way he held himself, the calculating look in his eyes.
