He studied her, not like a man measuring worth, but like a man listening for something beneath the words she didn’t say.
Then he spoke, quiet as if he were stating the weather.
“By spring,” he said, “you’ll birth our son.”
The sentence landed heavy in the small room.
Her eyes widened. Her hand flew to her belly as if to shield the baby from his claim. “Our—? No. No, sir. You don’t even know me.”
Silas nodded once. “I know enough.”
“You—” Her breath hitched. “The baby isn’t yours.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t smile. He didn’t lean forward like a predator. He only held her gaze with a steady certainty that made the words feel less like threat and more like vow.
“The Creator sent you here,” he said. “I will not let you die in the snow.”
Her chin quivered. The cup rattled against her teeth as she finally took a sip. Bitter heat slid down her throat. Tears rose, fast and humiliating.
