After the pregnancy, Damien changed.
Not dramatically. Not overnight. Slowly. Subtly. The way ice melts in spring — imperceptibly at first, then all at once.
He stopped coming home late. Stopped taking meetings that ran past midnight. Stopped bringing blood into the penthouse.
He was trying to be good.
For her. For the baby. For the family he had never imagined wanting.
Christabel watched him change.
And something inside her began to wither.
---
"You're different," she said.
They were in bed. His hand was on her stomach. The baby was kicking — soft flutters that made him smile every time.
"Different how?"
"Softer."
"Is that bad?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"I don't know yet."
---
The softness showed itself in small ways.
He made her breakfast every morning. Not burnt toast anymore. Real breakfast. Eggs. Fruit. Fresh juice from the market.
He read books about parenting. About childbirth. About how to be a good father.
He stopped carrying a gun to bed.
"You're not going to protect us with a book," she said.
"I'm not going to hurt us with a gun."
"You've never hurt me."
"I've never had a child before."
---
The fights stopped.
Not because they had nothing to fight about. Because Damien refused to engage. Every time Christabel pushed — every time she picked at old wounds, brought up old betrayals, tested his patience — he walked away.
"I need space," he'd say.
Or: "Let's talk about this when we're both calm."
Or: "I love you. I'm not going to fight with you."
She wanted to scream.
---
"You're smothering me," she said one night.
"I'm giving you what you asked for."
"I asked for you to be present. Not to be... this."
"What is this?"
"Boring."
The word hung in the air.
Damien's face didn't change. But something flickered in his eyes.
"I'm trying to be a good father."
"I don't need a good father. I need you."
"I am me."
"No." She stood up. Walked to the window. "You're someone else. Someone I don't recognize."
"Who do you want me to be?"
She turned to face him.
Her eyes were dark.
"I want the man who took me from that gallery. The one who didn't ask permission. The one who was dangerous."
"That man is still here."
"Then where is he? Because all I see is a man who reads parenting books and makes breakfast and apologizes for things that don't need apologies."
---
Damien stood.
Walked to her.
Stopped close enough to touch.
"You want dangerous?" he said.
"Yes."
"You want the monster?"
"Yes, Damien."
"You're pregnant with my child."
"I know."
"You want me to be dangerous while you're carrying our daughter?"
"I want you to be yourself."
He grabbed her.
Not hard. Not soft. Somewhere in between. The way he used to grab her before he started trying to be good.
"This is who I am," he said.
"Then prove it."
---
He kissed her.
Not gently.
The way she remembered. Deep and demanding and full of hunger.
She kissed him back the same way.
"I missed this," she said against his mouth.
"I missed you."
"I've been here the whole time."
"Not the real you." His hands were under her shirt. On her skin. "The one who fights back."
"I stopped fighting because you stopped giving me anything to fight against."
He pulled back.
Looked at her.
"You want me to fight with you?"
"I want you to fight for me. Not against me. Not around me. For me."
"I've always fought for you."
"Then stop being soft." She touched his face. "Stop being careful. Stop treating me like I'm going to break."
"You're pregnant."
"I'm still me." Her voice was fierce. "I'm still the woman who killed a man with her bare hands. I'm still the woman who chose you. I'm still dangerous, Damien. Even like this. Even with your daughter inside me."
---
He believed her.
Not because she convinced him. Because he saw it in her eyes. The fire. The hunger. The darkness that matched his own.
"I've been an idiot," he said.
"Yes."
"I've been trying to protect you from myself."
"I don't need protection from you. I need protection from everyone else."
"Then let's give them something to be afraid of."
She smiled.
The dangerous one.
"I've been waiting for you to say that."
---
That night, he didn't read a parenting book.
He didn't make breakfast plans.
He held her the way he used to hold her — like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
And when she fell asleep in his arms, he lay awake, watching her, thinking about the men who thought his softness was a weakness.
They were wrong.
The monster was still there.
He had just been sleeping