Each heartbeat feels like an eternity.
The massage room door is open.
Fenrir's kneeling beside her, blocking the view.
His face—I've never seen our VP look like that.
Broken.
Terrified.
Murderous.
All at once.
"Move," I say.
He steps aside.
And I see her.
She's on the floor.
Curled into herself.
So much blood.
Her face is swollen, bruised—one eye already purple and closing.
Her arm is cut—a long gash from elbow to wrist, still seeping, even though her father is applying pressure with a towel.
Her breathing is shallow.
Labored.
Wrong.
For one horrible second, I think she's dead.
Then she whimpers.
A small sound.
Broken.
But alive.
She's alive.
I'm on the floor beside her in an instant, knees hitting the tile hard.
"Ingrid. Baby. I'm here. I'm here."
Her eyes flutter, but they don't open.
"Don't move her." Gwen's there now, pushing past me, medical bag in hand. "We don't know what's injured. Let me assess."
I don't want to move.
