The train rattled through the blizzard, groaning like a wounded beast, snow scraping the windows with cold insistence. Inside the cramped compartment, warmth came only from proximity, from the bodies pressed together against the biting wind. The space felt suffocating, yet somehow alive with tension—every glance, every shift, every quiet movement pulled the air taut.

You sat with Jasper pressed to your chest, the newborn’s breath soft as candle smoke. The faint hum of the train swallowed his tiny sighs. Your hair had come loose from its knot, a few golden strands glinting in the dull light. Each of the men watched those strands with a quiet ache, as though they were proof that something gentle had survived the war.

Corban sat across from you, angular shoulders taut beneath his coat, his posture rigid, precise. Even seated, he radiated a quiet power, the sinews beneath his pale skin taut like drawn strings. His hazel eyes flicked from the map on his lap to you, taking in the curve of your shoulders, the delicate swell of your chest, the warmth of your presence, and wishing silently that he could shelter you from everything in the world. His red hair glinted in the dim carriage light, tousled, but somehow elegant. Beside him, little Corbett had fallen asleep, head against his father’s arm. The child’s red hair glowed like a muted flame under the flickering carriage light.

Antonin lounged beside the window, the storm outside mirrored in his stormy grey eyes. His dark brown hair fell in messy waves across his strong jawline. Broad shoulders sloped naturally, arms thick with muscle, the kind of strength that could crush or protect. His hand rested on little Dimitri’s shoulder, but the angle of his gaze kept him locked on you, noting the way your spine curved, the faint swell of your tummy beneath your dress, and the way you carried life even after giving birth. The Russian’s expression was carved from restraint, the kind that hides violence beneath silence.

Thorfinn was a presence no corner could hide. His platinum blonde hair shone almost white under the flickering carriage light, framing a face that could have belonged to a Nordic god. Every line of his broad, chiseled body filled the space he occupied—muscular arms, wide shoulders, solid chest—each shift of his frame a reminder that even in flight, he was a warrior born. His hand rested near yours, not touching, merely hovering protectively, a constant reminder of his reach and power.

Rodolphus leaned against the opposite window, dark hair falling over a pale, sharp face. His deep blue eyes seemed carved from ice, hypnotic, unyielding. His lithe frame, deceptively delicate, held a coiled strength beneath—the kind that made the air still when he moved. He didn’t need to touch to dominate the space; his presence pressed against you, magnetic and unsettling in equal measure. Rodolphus kept to the shadows, his dark head bowed, the infant Aksel murmuring questions against his sleeve until sleep took him too.

You smiled faintly—tired, grateful, unaware of the storm your smallest movement stirred in them. That fragile curve of your lips was a memory none of them wanted to lose. In another world, perhaps they might have competed for your laughter; now they guarded it like relics. Outside, the snow thickened. The train was heading north, deeper into the frozen lands, toward Thorfinn’s ancestral forest where even the Ministry’s reach faltered. Each man wondered if you would survive another journey, another winter, another hiding. Each knew he would follow you regardless.

The train wailed, the darkness beyond the window swallowing the last lights of civilization. Inside the little compartment, surrounded by maps, blankets, and sleeping children, you were the only thing that seemed real.

And for four men who had once pledged their souls to the Dark Lord, that reality was enough to make them silent, reverent, and almost—almost—gentle.

The wind carries the snow through the broken window again, as you tremble, your body still weak from the messy childbirth.