Lucas was halfway through calculating fuel storage ratios when the sound cut through the silence.
A baby's cry.
High. Fragile. Insistent.
His entire body went still.
For a split second, instinct sharpened him—threat assessment, exits, weapons.
Then the reality sank in.
He wasn't in a safehouse.
He was in a nursery wing of a sprawling estate.
And that baby—
Was his.
Or rather—
Julius's.
Lucas closed his eyes briefly.
Right.
He wasn't just an assassin planning for the apocalypse.
He was the mother of a two-month-old baby girl.
And stepmother to six others.
The crying grew louder.
He stood abruptly and followed the sound down the softly lit hallway, heart pounding—not from fear of monsters, but from something far more unfamiliar.
Responsibility.
He entered the nursery.
A tiny bundle lay in an ornate crib, face flushed pink, small fists waving angrily at the world. Soft black hair dusted her head. Her cries wavered the moment he approached.
Rosalie.
Two months old.
The child Julius had conceived to trap Kayden into marriage.
The child Kayden acknowledged—but rarely lingered beside.
Lucas hesitated only a second before lifting her carefully. She was warm. Light. Alarmingly delicate.
Her crying softened into small hiccups against his chest.
"I'm… your mother," he murmured awkwardly.
The word felt foreign.
He had taken lives without trembling.
But holding a baby?
Terrifying.
And Rosalie wasn't the only child in this house.
Kayden had six children with his late wife.
Six living, breathing reasons the future could not unfold the way it had in the novel.
Lucas forced himself to think clearly.
Alastor.
Nine years old.
The eldest.
In the novel, he was described as a miniature version of Kayden—already carrying himself with quiet authority. Black hair, sharp features, broad shoulders that would one day rival his father's.
But his eyes were blue.
A rare inheritance from his mother.
Alastor was calm. Observant. Serious beyond his years. Protective of his siblings in a way that felt instinctual rather than taught.
If Kayden was the steel backbone of the family—
Alastor was its steady spine.
Then there was Micah.
Seven years old.
A carrier.
Like Julius.
Micah took after his mother more—wavy red hair, pale skin dusted with freckles. The only thing he inherited from Kayden were those unmistakable gray eyes.
Unlike Alastor, Micah was adventurous. Curious. Constantly trailing after his older brother despite repeated warnings. The type of child who would wander off to explore something fascinating—and dangerous.
Lucas's chest tightened.
In the novel, that curiosity had cost him dearly.
The twin girls came next.
Isabella and Octavia.
Five years old. Identical.
Black hair like Kayden's. Blue eyes like their mother's.
Isabella had been born first, technically older by minutes—a fact she liked to assert, according to the novel's small domestic details. Octavia followed her sister in everything, but where Isabella was bold, Octavia was quieter, more watchful.
Together, they were inseparable.
Jonah.
Three years old.
A bright, happy toddler with a smile big enough to disarm even the coldest adult. In the novel's early chapters, he had been described clinging to Kayden's pant leg, laughing without fear, unaware of the world about to collapse.
And finally—
Cassius.
Fifteen months old.
Still barely more than a baby when his mother died.
He had been three months old when Julius conceived Rosalie.
Cassius likely didn't even remember his mother's face.
Lucas looked down at the infant in his arms.
Seven children.
Seven futures.
Seven deaths in the original timeline.
His grip on Rosalie tightened protectively.
He wasn't just preparing for the apocalypse anymore.
He was preparing to protect a household full of children—each with different needs, personalities, vulnerabilities.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, the stakes felt real in a way spreadsheets and bunkers never could.
Kayden's descent into cold brutality hadn't begun with power.
It had begun with loss.
Lucas gently rocked Rosalie as her breathing evened out.
"No one is dying," he whispered quietly, more promise than hope.
Not Alastor.
Not Micah.
Not Isabella and Octavia.
Not Jonah.
Not Cassius.
Not Rosalie.
Eight months.
He had eight months to become someone worthy of being called their parent.
And to make sure Kayden Black never had to bury his children.