War and I hadn’t really talked about children—not except for that one conversation that ended in a fight. We should’ve discussed this more, that’s for damn sure.

I place my hand on my stomach, my fingers drumming along it. The horseman follows the movement, but there’s no spark of awareness there. Not like there would be if he were born human. There are cues like this that he wholly misses.

I’m pregnant.

I open my mouth to tell him, when I pause. I don’t know how he’ll react. That alone accounts for approximately half of my fear. We just got back together.

The other half of my fear comes from being pregnant. With a horseman’s offspring.

Fuck me and my poor life choices.

I stare at War, then his mouth. He kills everyone. Everyone.

And the last time I even came close to discussing whether he’d had children with any of the women he’d previously been with, he got offended. I assumed at the time I’d wounded his pride, but maybe there’s something else to the conversation, something dark that would frighten me.

I’m being ridiculous. The horseman cares for me. He’d care for a baby if it was ours.

I think.

I mean, he reluctantly saved Mamoon, but how many thousands of other children have died in his battles?

Those aren’t good odds.

I shake my head, giving him a wan smile. “I’m just tired, and I hate feeling sick.”

The horseman’s brow is pinched. He looks legitimately concerned. “Spend the day resting. You need it, wife. I will have someone bring you a basin of water to keep yourself cool. No one but me will bother you.”

No one but me.

I nod, biting the inside of my cheeks. Again, he doesn’t mention the doctor he threatened me with earlier, and I’m absurdly grateful for it. They would know in an instant what it’s taken my dense-ass all this time to figure out.

I stare at War for a beat longer.

I could still tell him. It might be alright. He’s promised to keep me from death.

He’s made that promise to no one else.

Would he extend it to our kid?

Maybe—probably, but there’s a part of me that’s not sure, and that’s reason enough to keep my mouth shut. I’m unwilling to lose anyone else to the horseman.

War reaches out and helps me up, and I pretend everything is alright when it’s not. God, it’s not.

I’m motherfucking pregnant.

I wait for War to fall asleep that night, just as I always do when I want to deceive him. I’m painfully predictable, and between that and my jumpy state today, I’m sure War can see right through me.

Late that night, however, he slips into bed beside me, his hands moving over my skin like he’s trying to map me out all over again. I squeeze my eyes shut against his touch. It’s been hard enough faking high spirits today. It’s all I can do to act as though I’m asleep.

Eventually his hands still and his breathing deepens. Only then do I allow myself to really think about my situation again.

Pregnant …

What am I supposed to do?

Either I tell War, or I don’t, but if I don’t … I can’t stay here, where he will eventually find out.

What’s the worst that could happen if I tell the horseman?

He could lump our child with the rest of humanity, the part he wants to purge the world of.

The thought of a father killing his own child seems so preposterous that I want to laugh, but is it? Truly? War is way more comfortable killing people than he is sparing them. It’s only my own foolish belief in War’s goodness that makes me think he wouldn’t hurt our child.

That same foolish belief led me to think I could save the people of Mansoura—but the city still fell. And that same belief caused me to beg War to spare various people. And he did spare Mamoon, but what were his parting words then?

Don’t ask this of me again, wife. You will be denied.

I turn on my back and stare up at the canvas ceiling.

He didn’t raise the dead that one time …

My argument sounds weak, even to my own ears. Wanting something to be true doesn’t make it true.

I blow out a breath.

What would old Miriam have done—the Miriam who never met War?

To save her family from threats?

She would have done whatever was necessary.

I’ve lost everyone I loved. If all War knows of love is longing, then all I know of it is loss.

Only now, there’s a tiny new someone. Someone I could still lose.

I won’t let that happen. Not again.

No matter my feelings for War, it would be naïve of me to assume the best of him after everything I’ve seen him do. War’s a good lover—maybe even a good partner—but a good father?

I don’t know, and I’m not going to risk finding out.

Taking a shaky breath, I lean over and kiss his lips. His arm comes up around me and he rubs my back. “Mmm … my wife.”

Something thick lodges itself in my throat.

I slip away from him then.

“Where are you going?” he mumbles.

I hesitate. “Just … going to the bathroom.” Not entirely implausible. Everyone at camp goes to the bathroom outside.

Quietly, I grab the things I need, and then I leave the tent.

My heart feels like it’s crumbling in on itself.

I don’t consider saddling a horse. Not when the corrals are usually guarded.

I’ll head out by foot until I get to the nearest town War’s army swept through. Surely I can grab a bike there—maybe even one with a small trailer hitched to it. I might have a chance then.

I feel like a fool for planning even this. There’s no escaping without War knowing. He’s always watching me, guarding me, and I’ve never managed to escape him.

Still, I don’t slow.

I have to try. Regardless of what happens, I have to at least give escape a shot.

It’s easy to walk right out of camp. The dead no longer guard the tent, and there’s not enough living soldiers to sufficiently guard the perimeter.

That all changes, however, once I get far enough out. War’s formerly undead army is now stationed out here, far enough from the camp that the smell isn’t overpowering.

The hairs on my arms rise at the sight of all of them standing motionlessly. I can’t tell which way they’re facing, but it seems like they’re all watching me with those dead eyes.

A moment later the smell hits me. I place a hand over my nose, gagging a little. Five thousand dead bodies rotting away under the summer sun creates a stench. Even breathing through my mouth, I can still taste the fetid rot of them all, it’s so thick in the air.

It only gets worse as I close the distance between us. None of the zombies move; no one steps forward to stop me, and none of them turn their heads to watch me pass. And then I’m right up to the line of them. There’s enough space between the dead to walk by without rubbing up against them, but I still wait for someone to grab me. I expect it now after so many encounters with them.

When none of them do, I exhale.

That was too easy. The thought fills me with dread.

Now to find a road, any road. So long as it leads away from here, I’ll be fine.

It takes what feels like an eternity, but eventually I do come across a road. It’s only then that I chance a glance over my shoulder.