'Faith'
Rico
Easter morning arrives too clean, like the world’s scrubbing away the stains left by men like me in the dark. The house smells sharply of polish, cinnamon, and lilies. My people drift quietly so she can wake without fear. I’ve prowled the halls twice, checked the security feeds, and clung to the perimeter report as if it’s a lifeline. Yet even with this control, I notice the tension in Mae; the nights she wakes too suddenly, the way her hand drifts to her stomach seeking comfort. She never mentions the heaviness in her gaze or the restless dreams that leave her quiet at sunrise, but I see the toll it takes. No amount of control quiets the dread in me: she’s carrying my child, and the world is always dangerous, its threats as sharp as claws.
Mae shifts in the bed behind me, a sound so raw it slices the quiet sharper than any alarm. I hold myself still. If she wakes, I won’t let her see the hunger in my gaze, not when she’s exhausted and clings to the pretense of needing no one. The old chair at the window creaks beneath me as I fold my hands, watching the gold light climb the glass, persistent as a promise. Waiting, I’ve learned, is a fierce surrender. It’s both a weapon and, truly, the best way to love her, without overwhelming her.
She inhales, then exhales as it hurts, and my control tightens in my chest. Eight months pregnant, she’s changed in ways she tries to hide behind attitude, and I let her have that pride because it’s part of her strength. Still, I move before she can sit up too quickly. I’ve watched her wince and pretend she didn’t. “Go slow,” I tell her, my voice low, so it doesn’t sound like an order even when it is. She rolls her eyes but lets me help, and that’s the closest I get to peace.
My hands settle at her hips, steady and careful. I guide her upright, heart thudding at the quiet strength in her body. She isn’t fragile, but she’s carrying something that is. That truth has rewired every instinct in me. Her belly shifts under the thin fabric of her sleep shirt, and the baby presses back with a kick, making Mae gasp, a sound of surprise and fierce protection. I press my palm there, reverence flooding me so fast it nearly stings, like I’m the one being remade. “Good morning,” I murmur. Mae’s expression gentles, raw tenderness flickering across her face, and she thinks I don’t notice.
She looks past me toward the hall. I watch as her gaze catches the ribbons and the bowl of painted eggs on the console, and see her eyes pause for a second before moving on. I did it before sunrise, quiet and precise, because she said she wanted Easter to feel normal. I wanted to give her that lie for just a few hours. “You decorated,” she says, almost accusing, as if my heart betrays me. I feel something warm twist under my ribs. “It’s Easter,” I answer. Tradition is my excuse, not a confession. She studies me as if searching for a trap, waiting for the catch, and I let her. It’s safer when she expects one.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells like cinnamon rolls and coffee, and the staff keeps their gaze lowered as we pass. I keep my hand at the small of her back, light enough to be gentle and firm enough to remind her she isn’t alone. Mae notices it, always, and she never flinches anymore, which means she’s adjusting even when she says she isn’t. That both comforts me and terrifies me, because belonging to me comes with shadows she shouldn’t have to learn. I’ve seen too many people soften into my world and mistake calm for safety until it’s too late.
The basket sits on the island where she can’t miss it, woven and heavy, not childish, not bright. Mae stops short. Her eyes narrow, sharp with suspicion, like the first time she realized I wasn’t asking when I stayed. “What did you do?” she says, her voice stiff, each word edged like a warning, and I nearly smile. “Open it,” I say, keeping my hands at my sides; I want this moment to belong to her. When she finds the bracelet, delicate gold engraved inside, her throat tightens, swallowing pain like a bitter pill. She looks up at me, eyes burning with the depth of her anger, and I let her have it; anger is safer than fear.
The baby jolts again, insistently, and Mae’s hand shields her belly on instinct. I lay my hand over hers, my mind racing through every worst-case scenario I will never say aloud. She’s safe here, safer than anywhere, but safety is fragile, maintained only by vigilance and fear. Mae’s breath stutters, and I know dread grips her too: stepping into the church, being exposed, going where my influence has limits. I want to shield her, to say we could stay home, but she needs this illusion of normalcy, and I’ll do anything to provide it, even as I prepare for whatever threats might come.
One of my men enters through the side door. He is careful and silent; anxiety coils in my gut as I sense Mae tense before she even sees him. “Routes are clear,” he reports. His voice is even, eyes on me, and I read the subtext anyway. Clear means controlled. Controlled means we’re still pretending no one’s testing us today. I nod once, jaw tight. He adds, “Mass is secure,” like that word belongs in my mouth. Mae’s gaze flicks to mine, questioning; there’s a flicker of fear I refuse to echo. I keep my expression calm; she needs calm. The man leaves, and the kitchen exhales, cinnamon scent overtaking the bitter shadow of war.
Mae tries to make a joke about me hating holidays, and I correct her because accuracy matters even when the truth is softer than my reputation. “I hate noise,” I tell her, and I watch her shoulders drop the tiniest amount. I step closer and brush my knuckles along her cheek, slow, controlled, because tenderness is another kind of danger when it’s real. “Sometimes I forget who you are,” she admits, and I want that to be true forever. “Good,” I answer, because if she remembers too clearly, she’ll start counting all of the exits again.
Across the yard, a car door slams, rupturing the calm we’d built. My body stiffens before my mind can react. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe everything; survival never relies on hope. My hand grips Mae’s belly, and she looks up, sensing the shift. “Stay close today,” I whisper, gentle but firm. Mae’s chin lifts, meeting dread with stubborn loyalty. When she tells me she always does, I flinch at how easily those words remind me of faith, so strong, yet so easily broken. I kiss her forehead, promising everything and warning her in the same gesture, because Easter teaches only the living about the price of devotion; it never brings the dead back.
