XXXVIII

**Darius waited.**

He stood still, unmoving as stone, the hard line of his shoulders taut beneath his shirt. His sharp gaze remained locked on Sasha, unblinking, unwavering, as if sheer force of will could drag the words out of her mouth.

She always spoke first. Always met his stare with fire or ice. But tonight, she said nothing.

The silence that stretched between them wasn't the comfortable kind. It was thick—dense with all the things left unsaid. Heavy enough to suffocate, sharp enough to cut. It felt like an invisible barrier neither of them dared to breach.

Sasha's fingers curled unconsciously into the edge of the blanket draped over her legs, her knuckles turning white. She was caught in the storm inside her own mind, wrestling with herself.

Should she speak?

Should she stay silent?

What would it even change?

She didn't know anymore.

But beneath all that indecision, deeper than her bruised pride or the bitterness still clinging to her ribs, there was something else. Something painfully small, yet stubborn.

She wanted him to speak first.

Wanted—needed—him to be the one to bridge the distance.

To ask how she was.

To tell her she wasn't alone.

To comfort her.

To hold her.

But he didn't move. Not even an inch.

The only sound between them was the soft, rhythmic breath of their newborn son, rising and falling against her bare skin. His tiny lips had parted moments ago, slack with sleep as he released her breast.

Sasha stared down at him, watching the delicate flutter of his eyelids. His cheeks were flushed, his tiny fists relaxed. He was full. Content.

Carefully, she shifted, adjusting her hold, trying to ease him gently into a more secure position. But when her fingers fumbled at the strap of her gown, her muscles trembling from exhaustion, the simple task felt monumental—like lifting something far too heavy.

Her breath caught. Frustration prickled beneath her skin.

And then—

Darius moved.

Silently. Surely.

He crossed the space between them without hesitation, his hand brushing against hers as he reached for the baby.

Sasha flinched at the unexpected warmth of his touch. She stiffened, instinct warring with something softer, but she didn't resist. She let him take their son from her arms.

For a heartbeat, she stared at their hands—his much larger, roughened fingers wrapped so securely around their tiny child—before glancing up.

That's when she really looked at him.

And something inside her shifted.

Darius looked… different.

His beard was thicker now, unruly, shadowing the sharp lines of his jaw. His face was leaner, almost gaunt. Dark hollows carved beneath his eyes, telling stories of sleepless nights. His lips were drawn tight, his expression unreadable, but there was something unmistakably weathered about him.

He looked like a man who had fought through hell and barely come out the other side.

Her throat tightened without warning.

Quickly, almost too quickly, Sasha fumbled to fix her gown, pulling the fabric over herself as if it could shield her from the strange ache unraveling in her chest. But the image of him lingered, tangled up in the haze of exhaustion and emotion.

Darius cradled the baby in his arms with a care so precise, so unexpectedly gentle, that it caught her breath. He didn't say a word. Simply shifted Damien against his chest, adjusting his hold like it came naturally.

He made to turn away.

And before she even realized it, her hand shot out.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, desperate, instinctive.

Darius froze.

Slowly—almost reluctantly—he turned his head, his dark eyes flickering down to where her hand clung to him. There was something guarded in his stare, something tightly controlled, but behind it, something fragile glimmered beneath the surface.

Sasha swallowed hard, unable to hold his gaze for long. She dropped her eyes, focusing on his wrist, on the faint beat she felt beneath her fingertips.

It took her a moment before she finally forced the words past the lump in her throat.

"Thank you…" Her voice cracked. She drew in a shaky breath, steadied herself. "Thank you for coming."

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. Bitter. Cutting. But his eyes told another story—one she couldn't quite decipher.

"So," he murmured, voice low and sharp, "you finally decided to speak."

Deliberately, he pried her fingers off him, one by one, his movements unhurried, almost clinical.

The moment his skin left hers, something inside her recoiled.

An ache bloomed low in her chest, unwelcome and disorienting.

"'Thank you,' huh?" he echoed, his tone laced with mockery, though there was an edge to it she couldn't ignore. "Since when did you start being grateful toward me?"

His eyes lingered on her for a second longer, the air between them charged with something unspoken.

Sasha swallowed again, her lips pressing tightly together. She didn't answer. Couldn't.

The silence came creeping back, settling like a weight between them.

And then, after a long pause—so long it almost felt unbearable—her voice broke through again, quieter this time, uncertain.

"Can you… hold the baby?"

Her eyes flickered up briefly.

"I'm tired."

For a moment, she wondered if he would ignore her. Walk away. Push her away like she once had pushed him.

But Darius didn't hesitate.

Without comment, he shifted Damien into the crook of his arm, adjusting his stance effortlessly. His movements were sure, practiced even, as if he had always known how to handle their child.

Sasha watched him in stunned silence.

Watched as he cradled their son close, his large hands impossibly gentle as he rocked him in a steady rhythm. He stared down at Damien, eyes dark but soft, wholly focused on the small bundle in his arms.

She couldn't look away.

Darius stood there quietly, almost reverently, tracing his thumb over the baby's tiny, curled fist. When Damien stirred—just a small, restless motion—Darius immediately adjusted his hold, swaying slightly as if by instinct, calming him without a word.

The tightness in Sasha's throat returned, stronger this time, curling like a fist around her windpipe.

She had braced herself for anger. For sharp edges, for cold indifference, maybe even hatred.

But she hadn't expected this.

She hadn't expected him to look at their son as if he were something fragile, something precious.

Something he never wanted to break.

Her fingers twisted in the blanket, nails digging in as emotion swelled inside her—raw, overwhelming, and impossible to name.

Darius continued pacing slowly around the room, his attention never straying from the child in his arms. Not once.

And Sasha… Sasha watched him, feeling something inside her quietly come undone.

The door creaked open, and the soft shuffle of footsteps echoed in the sterile room.

The nurse entered, her gaze dropping politely to avoid the heavy tension hanging in the air.

Darius didn't lift his head, his posture rigid beside Sasha's hospital bed. His dark eyes remained fixed, unreadable.

"Give me the bill," he said flatly, his voice stripped of any emotion, as if detached from the scene entirely.

The nurse nodded quickly, her hands fumbling slightly as she prepared the receipt. She handed it to him without daring to meet his eyes, sensing the crackling undercurrent between the two occupants of the room.

Once the door closed behind her, silence returned like a weight pressing on Sasha's chest.

For a moment, she debated staying quiet, letting the silence stretch. But the question clawed at her, fragile and uncertain.

She finally broke it, her voice soft, hesitant. **"Are you leaving?"**

Darius's jaw tightened.

That single movement said more than any words.

When his eyes finally met hers, they were dark and distant, as if there was a wall between them she couldn't cross. His voice dropped, low and cutting.

**"It's not just me."**

The accusation lingered in the air, heavier than before.

Sasha's breath caught, and she dropped her gaze, her throat constricting around words she couldn't quite form.

Her fingers instinctively curled tighter around the tiny hand resting in her palm—Damien's fingers, soft and impossibly small, clinging to her even in sleep.

She bent down and brushed her lips against his delicate knuckles, trying to focus on the warmth of her son instead of the chill creeping into her chest.

But no matter how tightly she held Damien, she couldn't shake the sharp sting behind her eyes, the ache twisting inside her.

Then Darius's voice cut through the fragile stillness, deeper this time.

**"It's time to leave."**

Before she could react, before the words reached her lips, he moved.

Without warning, Darius stepped forward and scooped her effortlessly into his arms.

Sasha let out a startled gasp. **"Darius—"**

"Don't hold onto me," he interrupted, his tone unyielding, yet lacking venom. **"You won't fall."**

The firmness in his voice brooked no argument, leaving her pulse racing as she instinctively gripped his shoulders, only to force herself to release him moments later.

Instead, she shifted her arms, cradling Damien close to her chest like a fragile lifeline.

Darius carried them both as if they weighed nothing, his movements precise, controlled. He didn't glance down at her, didn't say another word.

By the time he settled her in the passenger seat and secured her belt, the silence between them had thickened, almost suffocating.

He closed the door gently but firmly, sealing them both in the quiet.

The drive home was devoid of conversation.

Only the hum of the engine and the faint sound of rain tapping against the windows filled the void.

Neither of them spoke, neither dared.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Sasha's arms ached slightly as she carefully adjusted Damien against her shoulder, carrying him into the familiar bedroom.

Nothing had changed.

The dark walls still loomed, the heavy scent of cologne still clung faintly in the air.

The same expensive furniture, cold and pristine, untouched by the chaos that had unraveled in their lives.

Everything looked exactly as she remembered, yet she felt like a stranger walking through it.

She laid Damien gently on the bed, tucking a pillow beside him to keep him from rolling.

Her breath trembled as she lingered, her hand brushing over his soft curls.

But her body felt sore, weak. Every movement sent a dull ache rippling through her abdomen.

She straightened, intending to freshen up, desperate to wash off the weight clinging to her skin.

But as soon as she took a step—

Pain shot through her lower stomach like a blade.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as her knees buckled, the room blurring at the edges.

Before she could hit the floor, strong arms caught her.

The scent, the warmth—it was unmistakable.

Darius.

She blinked up at him, breathless, caught off guard by the effortless way he held her, steady and firm.

He didn't say a word.

Didn't ask for permission.

He carried her straight to the bathroom as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Once there, he lowered her carefully onto the closed toilet lid, his expression unreadable.

His voice, when it came, was calm but edged with something harder.

**"Why were you trying to walk by yourself?"**

Sasha swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

Her voice was thin. **"I wanted to take a bath."**

He stared at her for a long moment, something flickering behind his eyes.

But he didn't argue.

Instead, he reached for the hem of her hospital gown, fingers moving with quiet efficiency.

Sasha stiffened instinctively, her breath catching as he pulled the gown over her head.

For a heartbeat, she hesitated—but then she lifted her arms, allowing him to undress her without protest.

His touch remained clinical, detached.

He removed her underwear next, methodical and careful, never lingering.

Never meeting her eyes.

There was no hunger, no tenderness.

Only the same cold precision he wielded in every part of his life.

Darius grabbed a soap bar and lathered it between his hands, the scent rising in the warm air.

Then, without a word, his hands moved over her skin—firm, practiced strokes, washing her as though she were a fragile piece of glass.

Her body tensed beneath his touch, caught between wanting to recoil and wanting to melt beneath the strange gentleness.

He reached for the shampoo next, massaging it into her scalp with steady fingers.

The motion should have been intimate, but instead, it felt like another layer of tension tightening between them.

Sasha closed her eyes, letting his hands work through her hair.

When suds threatened to slide down her face, Darius instinctively cupped water in his palms, carefully rinsing them away without letting a single drop sting her eyes.

It was infuriating how gentle he could be.

It made it harder to hold onto the anger she knew she should feel.

A shiver wracked her body, unbidden.

Immediately, Darius paused.

**"Are you in pain?"** His voice sharpened.

She shook her head quickly.

**"No… just cold."**

Her teeth chattered faintly, betraying her.

Without hesitation, he rinsed her off swiftly, then wrapped her in a thick towel, scooping her up once more.

She clung to his shoulders, this time unable to stop herself.

His hold was steady, grounding.

Back in the bedroom, she expected him to lay her down and leave.

But he didn't.

Instead, Darius took his time dressing her—pulling a fresh shirt over her arms, carefully smoothing the fabric.

His hands moved without hesitation, yet something in his posture was stiff, restrained.

Finally, he placed her on the bed, tucking the blanket over her.

Sasha's fingers curled weakly around the hem of his sleeve.

Her voice came out soft, almost pleading.

**"Stay."**

He stilled.

The shadows under his eyes deepened.

**"I can't. I have work."**

Her heart twisted.

But she pushed anyway, her voice quieter.

**"Darius… just for tonight."**

For a moment, she thought he might soften.

But then his eyes darkened, and the cold mask slipped firmly back into place.

**"I wasn't even aware of my son's birth."**

His words dropped like ice between them.

Her throat constricted.

**"I never meant to keep him from you,"** she whispered, the words tasting bitter.

Darius let out a scoff, humorless and sharp.

**"I can see that."**

She flinched, the weight of his accusation hitting hard.

Before she could muster a reply, he moved—

Suddenly, his hand curled around her jaw, firm but not cruel, forcing her eyes to meet his.

His voice was low, a dangerous undertone vibrating beneath.

**"That what? That you're a liar? That you planned everything just so you could kill me?"**

Her lips trembled, breath hitching.

**"I had my reasons—"**

But he cut her off before she could explain.

His stare burned, and for the first time tonight, his mask cracked just enough to reveal the fury simmering underneath.