Lyra’s POV
The next few hours blurred together like a fever dream.
Ashton carried me out of the warehouse, past the bodies and the chaos and Dad’s men swarming the perimeter. I caught a glimpse of Donovan being forced into a black SUV, his face bloodied, his composure finally shattered. Nate was loaded into an ambulance, handcuffed to the gurney, whimpering about his hand.
I felt nothing for either of them. Just emptiness where the fear used to be.
Ashton put me in his truck and drove straight to the hospital, one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
I remember the emergency room lights, too bright after the darkness of the warehouse. Doctors asking questions I couldn't answer. Ashton's voice, steady and calm, explaining what happened while I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember how to breathe.
And then the ultrasound.
The technician was kind, gentle, explaining everything as she moved the wand across my stomach. I held my breath, terrified of what she might find. Terrified that the drugs, the stress, the violence had hurt my baby in ways I couldn't feel.
But then I heard it.
A heartbeat. Strong and steady and impossibly fast.
"Baby looks perfect," the technician said with a warm smile. "Heartbeat strong, development normal, no signs of distress."
I cried. Ugly, relieved sobs that I couldn't control. My baby was okay. After everything—the kidnapping, the drugs, Nate's hands on me, the terror of not knowing if I'd survive—my baby was okay.
Ashton held me while I fell apart, his own eyes suspiciously bright, his hand trembling against my back. I think he'd been holding himself together through sheer force of will, and my tears finally gave him permission to feel something too.
Now the hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the soft murmur of voices in the hallway. I lay in the bed with my hand resting on my stomach, watching the ultrasound technician pack up her equipment.
Ashton hadn't left my side since we arrived. He sat in a chair pulled close to the bed, his hand wrapped around mine, his eyes hollow with exhaustion but refusing to close.
The police came and went, taking statements, promising updates on Nate's arrest and Donovan's capture. Kian's people handled the rest—the cleanup, the cover story, the careful management of what became public and what stayed buried.
I didn't ask for details. I didn't want to know.
The door opened and my father walked in.
He looked older than I remembered. Grayer, more tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than they were the last time I saw him in person—years ago, at a birthday dinner that ended in a shouting match about his absence from my life.
He was wearing a dark suit, impeccable as always, but there was something different about his posture. Something almost hesitant. He stopped a few feet from the bed, looking at me like he was afraid I might shatter.
"Lyra." My name sounded strange in his voice—softer than I'd ever heard it.
"Dad." The word felt foreign on my tongue. I hadn't called him that in years.
He moved closer, slowly, and sank into the chair on the opposite side of the bed from Ashton. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Kian reached out and took my other hand, his grip gentle, trembling slightly.
"I almost lost you." His voice cracked. "Again. Because I wasn't there. Because I thought keeping my distance would keep you safe." He shook his head, and I saw something I'd never seen before—tears glistening in my father's eyes. "I was so afraid of losing you the way I lost your mother that I lost you anyway."
I felt my own tears start again. "Why didn't you tell me? About mom, about who you really are, about any of it?"
"Because I wanted you to have a normal life. A clean life, away from the blood and the violence and the enemies who would use you to hurt me." He laughed bitterly. "And look how well that worked. The enemy got closer to you than I ever let myself get."
He told me everything then.
How he met my mother—beautiful, fierce, the only woman who ever made him want to be better. How they fell in love, got married, had me. How the rival organization targeted her as revenge for Kian's rising power. How he held his wife's body in his arms and swore he would never let anyone hurt his daughter the same way.
How that promise turned into distance. Into absence. Into fifteen years of protecting me from afar while I grew up thinking he didn't care.
"I watched you," he admitted. "Every birthday, every graduation, every milestone. I had people send me photos, videos, reports on how you were doing. I knew about every boyfriend, every friend, every grade you earned." His voice dropped. "But I couldn't be there. I told myself it was safer that way."
He met my eyes.
"I was wrong. I was a coward. And I'm sorry, Lyra. I'm so sorry for all of it."
I didn't forgive him. Not completely.
The years of loneliness, of waiting by windows, of wondering why my father didn't love me enough to show up—those wounds don't heal with one conversation. But I understood now. The absence wasn't indifference. It was fear, twisted into something that looked like abandonment.
"I'm pregnant," I said quietly. I watched his face, waiting for the explosion.
His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to Ashton, then back to me. "I know. Donovan told me during the negotiation." A muscle in his cheek twitched. "Is it..."
"It's Ashton's." No point in lying. No point in hiding anymore.
Kian was silent for a long moment. The tension in the room thickened until I could barely breathe. Then he turned to look at Ashton—really look at him—and the two men stared at each other across my hospital bed.
Fifteen years of friendship. Fifteen years of trust. And now this.
"About that,” he turned to face him. “You got my daughter pregnant." Kian's voice was flat, dangerous.
Ashton didn't flinch. "Yes."
"You were supposed to protect her. Not—"
"I know what I was supposed to do." Ashton's voice was steady, unflinching. "And I know what I did. I fell in love with her. I'm not going to apologize for that."
"You crossed a line."
"I did. And I'd cross it again." Ashton squeezed my hand. "I love her. I love our child. And I'll spend the rest of my life protecting them both, whether you approve or not."
The silence stretched. I held my breath, waiting for my father to explode, to threaten, to destroy the fragile peace we'd barely begun to build.
But Kian just exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his shoulders.
"If you ever hurt her," he said quietly, "I'll kill you myself. Best friend or not."
Ashton nodded. "I'd expect nothing less."
It wasn't a blessing. It wasn't forgiveness. But it wasn't a death sentence either.
It was a beginning. Messy, complicated, imperfect. Like everything else in my life.
I reached out and took both their hands—my father on one side, Ashton on the other. The two men who shaped my life in ways I was only beginning to understand. The two men who, despite everything, showed up when I needed them most.
"I don't know how to do this," I admitted. "Any of it. Being a mother. Having a father again. Building a life with someone." I looked at Ashton, then at Dad. "But I want to try. If you're both willing to try with me."
Dadsqueezed my hand. "I've wasted enough years, Lyra. I'm not wasting any more."
Ashton brought my hand to his lips. "I already told you. Together. Always."
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt something I'd almost forgotten existed.
Hope.
Maybe we could figure this out after all.