I study her face, searching for any hint of deceit, but all I see is vulnerability and a desperate need for reassurance. Something twists in my chest, an unfamiliar ache. I know I have. It’s deliberate. But maybe I need to be better.
"Emylyah," I begin, my voice softer than I intend. “I...”
Before I can continue, the doctor returns with a stack of ultrasound printouts.
"Here you are," he says cheerfully, handing them to Emylyah. "Your little boy from every angle. Now, let's talk about prenatal care and what to expect in the coming months."
As Dr. Zelensky launches into a detailed explanation of dietary needs, exercise recommendations, and warning signs to watch for, I find my attention drawn to the colored 3D images in Emylyah's hands. The detail is astounding. I can clearly see everything. Fingers, toes, even the peaceful expression on the baby’s sleeping face.
My son.
The reality of it crashes over me again, bringing with it a tidal wave of absolute love so forceful I almost don’t recognize myself for a moment. The sensation is primal, reckless, a meteor slamming into the bedrock of my being and leaving a scorched indent where my former self used to be. My hand is still clenched on the edge of the exam table and for the first time in as long as I can remember, it shakes. I stare at the printouts, watching Emylyah’s thumb hesitate on the glossy surface, tracing the outline of the tiny, perfectly formed skull, and I realize I’ve never truly contemplated what it would mean to see my own child. To face a living testament to my bloodline and know it carries every hope, curse, and all the unresolved promises I can’t undo.
I glance at Emylyah and see a reflection of my own tumbling emotions trembling beneath her long, blonde lashes. She cradles the images like a talisman, or perhaps a shield, as if holding them close will anchor her to this new reality neither of us is prepared for. The doctor’s words fade into white noise as I hear, again and again, the echo of my son’s heartbeat - a sound that speaks to some primitive, unbreakable part of me that has survived every betrayal and every loss I’ve endured.
It’s so loud in my mind that for a second I’m afraid everyone in the building must hear it, must know a new Radaeva is coming into the world. That knowledge tightens something inside of me, a binding vow I can feel etching itself into my bones.
Emylyah’s gaze flicks to me, searching for some sign of what I’m thinking, and I wonder if she senses the seismic shift in my priorities; the sudden, ferocious need to shield this child and her from the countless enemies I’ve cultivated over the years.
I know exactly what’s expected of me, what kind of father and husband I must be now the stakes have changed. But right now, all I can do is stare at the ghostly outline of my son’s profile in the scan—how his nose is already sharp, how even now he seems to scowl, like he’s inherited my displeasure at being observed. I want to laugh, or scream, or maybe just run my hand over Emylyah’s barely-there bump and feel something move beneath my palm. But I stay still, almost reverent, and let the weight of legacy settle around my shoulders.
My son. A future. A line that continues after me.
A legacy I can’t walk away from, even if I wanted to.
Chapter Seven
LYAH
Niko seems… different.
It’s not in anything he overtly says or does, just in the subtle shifts of his behavior. The way his eyes linger on me when he thinks I'm not looking. How his hand hovers near my belly before he catches himself and pulls away. A new gentleness in his touch as if he's afraid of breaking me.
I don’t quite know what to make of it. The Niko I’m used to, the man forged in the bowels of Ukraine, before being honed and refined in the dark alleys and boardrooms of Manhattan, is all sharp lines and shut doors, a fortress of self-rule. He can run an empire and dismantle his enemies by breakfast, but the moment things stray too close to tenderness, he becomes evasive, as if affection is a trick bullet destined for his heart. Even after we said I do, after the long nights pressed together on our honeymoon with the world on mute, I always sensed his caution, the lingering calculation in every rare embrace.
But lately, something has shifted. I’ve started to notice cracks in his armor. Just little slivers - like the way he always finds an excuse to be in the same room as me, even if he’s just nursing an espresso and staring at the skyline. Or he’ll stand in the doorway while I brush my teeth, arms crossed, feigning disinterest but glancing at my reflection. When I’m on a call with Roisin he loiters in the background, listening to the advice she gives me and jotting down notes he disguises as work. And when he thinks I’m asleep, he’ll kneel by the bed, resting his palm on my hip, as if by touching me he can tether himself to this fragile new reality.
Sometimes in the morning, I catch him fumbling through pregnancy books on his phone, trying to look bored, but reading every word. I don’t dare call him out on it, but the first time he saw me looking he shrugged, and told me we should be prepared, like it was nothing. I hope it means more than that. I think it does. A man like Nikolai Radaeva doesn't do anything by half measures. Affection, for him, is the same currency as violence: transactional, controlled, never freely given, and never left unguarded. Even our wedding vows, whispered in a private midnight chapel with just my mother, Roisin, and Darian present as witnesses, was more like a binding contract. There were no declarations of love; we never had that dynamic. Looking back, with what I know now, I’m surprised he even took time for a honeymoon.
But here I am, watching the contours of his hard self suddenly go soft around the edges, like he's been handed a living, breathing secret he can't bear to lose. It makes the yearning ache I’ve always felt inside me bloom into a riotous garden of hope for our future.
It makes me love him all the more, and Niko is not an easy man to love.
The first time I caught him watching me sleep, he lied about it. Said he was up early, trying to get ahead on work, but his phone screen was dark and his laptop untouched. Instead, he held a cup of coffee and stared at me with the kind of desperation usually reserved for enemies' weaknesses. Another night he came home late and I pretended to be asleep, but I felt the mattress dip and his hand pause over my stomach. He whispered something I couldn't quite make out, but it sounded… affectionate, in his own, rough way.
I see him change day by day, the sharp edges blunting, silences filling with unspoken hopes, and for the first time, I believe the metamorphosis might be real. I try to be cautious, to keep my heart barricaded behind the same steel doors Niko wields so expertly. But it’s like watching a glacier thaw - you can’t look away, no matter how gradual the shift. Even though everything inside me screams not to trust it, I find myself hoping anyway.
It's been a month since we found out about the baby, and each small change adds up to something more profound. Where before Niko was distant and cold, now there's an undercurrent of protectiveness in his actions. He makes sure I take my prenatal vitamins every morning, chiding me if I forget, but never harshly, which makes me feel all kinds of guilty. I googled St John’s Wort because something in Dr Zelensky’s response to it made me curious and discovered it’s the likely cause of my implant failing since it apparently decreases the effectiveness of hormone-based contraceptives, but I don’t want Niko to think I did it on purpose. The kitchen is suddenly stocked with all the healthy foods the doctor recommended, and Niko watches like a hawk to ensure I'm eating properly, suddenly available for mealtimes. It makes me feel treasured in a way I’ve never felt before.
At night, when he slides into bed beside me, his arm drapes across my waist, hand splayed protectively over my growing bump, which is just about starting to show, but not so I’m noticeably pregnant.
Sometimes I’m roused from slumber by him whispering in Ukrainian to our unborn son, his voice low and fierce with promises I barely understand since I’m not fluent in the language, or I’ll find him wrapped around me protectively while he sleeps.
This morning, I wake to the most noticeable change as he touches me with reverence, his calloused hands skimming my skin with a gentleness I've never felt from him before. His lips trail soft kisses along my neck and shoulder as he presses against me from behind.
"Good morning, moya lyubov," he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep.
I shiver at the endearment, one he's never used before. My love. The words send a thrill through me.
