12
Peter
I know the exact moment Sara realizes the lack of a condom. Her entire body stiffens, and she lifts her head from its resting place on my shoulder, her eyes wide with horror as she meets my gaze.
“We didn’t—”
“I know.”
It’s the second time—the first was the night I stole her—and though I didn’t omit protection on purpose either time, I can’t say I’m sorry. The thought of Sara growing round with my child doesn’t frighten or repel me; in fact, it fills my chest with a soft, warm glow, one I’ve only known once before.
With Pasha, my son.
A familiar ache pierces my chest, the pain of loss as sharp as ever. The image of Pasha’s body, his little fist clutching the toy car, is carved into my mind with the brutal precision of an assassin’s blade. For years, it was the first thing I
