Chapter 17: Twin Devotion
The sound of the city was a distant river thirty floors below, a continuous rush of tires and indistinct life. In the dark sanctuary of the bedroom, it was just a whisper. Stephanie lay on her side, one hand splayed protectively over the flat plane of her stomach. The silk sheets were cool against her skin.
Two.
The word echoed in the quiet. It didn’t feel real yet, not in her body. But in her mind, it had taken root and bloomed into a strange, trembling garden. One was an accident, a consequence. Two felt like a message. A purpose. Her thumb rubbed a small, absent circle just below her navel. The fear was still there, a cold little stone in her chest, but it was surrounded now by something warmer, something that pulsed in time with the remembered thump-thump-thump-thump of the monitor.
She didn’t remember falling asleep. The exhaustion of the day, the emotional whiplash from the estate to the ultrasound, pulled her under as if she were sinking into a deep, warm bath.
She woke to sunlight painting gold stripes across the black floor and the rich, teasing aroma of butter, garlic, and freshly baked bread. Veronica sat on the edge of the bed, a large tray balanced on her lap. She was already dressed in tailored black trousers and a simple grey tank top, her tattoos stark against her skin, but her feet were bare.
“You slept fourteen hours,” Veronica said, her voice a low rasp. She placed the tray carefully over Stephanie’s legs. “You needed it.”
The spread was ridiculous. Fluffy omelet flecked with herbs, crispy bacon, a bowl of fresh fruit, a still-warm croissant that made Stephanie’s eyes sting with a sudden, sharp homesickness. A single pink rose in a slim vase.
“This is too much,” Stephanie whispered.
“Eat,” Veronica said, not unkindly. She watched as Stephanie picked up the croissant, the flakes shattering onto the tray. “How do you feel?”
Stephanie considered, chewing slowly. “Full,” she said finally. “But not from the food. Here.” She touched her chest. “It is a big feeling. I do not have the word for it.”
“Overwhelmed.”
“Yes. That is one of them.” She looked up, her blue eyes clear. “But not only that.”
After breakfast, Veronica didn’t let her shower. “Get dressed. Comfortable. Flat shoes.” She tossed Stephanie a soft, charcoal-grey sweatsuit. It swam on her smaller frame, the fabric smelling like Veronica’s sandalwood.
Malik was waiting in the foyer, a mountain of silent efficiency. He gave Stephanie a small, almost imperceptible nod. The garage held several cars; today it was a matte black SUV with windows so dark they seemed to swallow the light. Stephanie climbed in, the leather seat cool. Veronica slid in beside her, close enough that their thighs touched.
They drove out of the city, the buildings shrinking, giving way to warehouses and scrubland. Stephanie didn’t ask. She watched the world change through the tinted glass, her hand finding Veronica’s, threading their fingers together. Veronica’s grip was firm, anchoring.
The building was nondescript, a concrete box with a faded sign for a plumbing supply wholesaler. Malik drove around back to a steel-reinforced door. He knocked once, a specific pattern. A slot opened, then closed. The door buzzed and swung inward.
The noise hit Stephanie first. It wasn’t loud, not yet, but it was a percussive, jarring pop-pop-pop that echoed in the cavernous space. The air was cool, dry, and carried the sharp, metallic scent of something burnt. A gun range.
Her steps faltered. Veronica’s hand on the small of her back urged her forward. “This is not a suggestion, chérie.”
They were in a private bay, separated from the main range by thick glass. Ear protection and protective glasses waited on a shelf. Veronica helped Stephanie put them on, her fingers gentle as they brushed her hair back. The world became muffled, her own breathing loud in her ears.
On the laminate counter lay three guns. Stephanie knew nothing about them, but they looked cold, definitive, and impossibly heavy.
Veronica stepped close behind her, her voice a vibration Stephanie felt through her back. “This is not about aggression. It is about language. In my world, this,” she picked up the smallest pistol, a sleek, black semi-automatic, “is a period at the end of a sentence. I need you to understand the grammar.”
She placed the gun in Stephanie’s hands. It was heavier than it looked. The grip was textured, cool.
“Both hands. Stand with your feet apart. Like this.” Veronica adjusted her stance, her touch clinical. “You do not fight the recoil. You anticipate it. You greet it. You make it a part of you.”
Stephanie’s arms trembled. The target at the end of the lane was a simple silhouette, a faceless man. She stared at it, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Look at me,” Veronica commanded, turning Stephanie’s face toward her. She lifted her own glasses. Her green eyes were intense, but not cruel. “You are not aiming at a person. You are aiming at a concept. The concept is ‘stop.’ The concept is ‘do not touch me.’ The concept is ‘I am going home to my children.’ Do you understand?”
Stephanie swallowed. Nodded.
“Good. Now breathe. And when you breathe out, squeeze. Do not pull.”
Stephanie closed her eyes for a second. She thought of the two heartbeats. She thought of the cold stone of fear. She breathed in. She breathed out.
She squeezed.
The explosion was immense, a violent jolt that traveled up her arms and rattled her teeth. The gun bucked in her hands. The sound, even muffled, was a physical slap. She gasped, lowering the weapon, her ears ringing.
She’d missed the target entirely. The bullet had struck the concrete wall far to the left, leaving a pale scar.
A tear of frustration escaped, tracking down her cheek beneath the glasses.
Veronica didn’t scold her. She simply took the gun, checked the safety, and set it down. “Again.”
They spent two hours. Her hands ached. Her shoulders screamed. The smell of cordite was a bitter perfume in her nose. But by the end, she could load a magazine, rack the slide, and plant three shots in the target’s center mass. The motions were clumsy, slow, but they were correct.
On the drive back, the silence was different. Stephanie watched her own hands in her lap. They were clean, but they felt permanently changed. They felt capable of a new, terrible language.
Back in the penthouse, as the sunset bled fire across the windows, Stephanie stood before the bathroom mirror. She washed her face, the water cool. She looked at her reflection, at the girl who cried easily, who jumped at loud noises, who had never fired a gun before today.
She placed her damp hands on her belly again.
Two.
She looked from her reflection to her hands, then back again. Something had settled. Not peace. Not quite. But a resolve, hard and quiet as steel. She was afraid. She would probably always be afraid. But she was no longer just afraid for herself. She was afraid for them. And that, she was beginning to understand, made all the difference.