"Elena?" His voice picked up on the first ring.
"Marco!" Panic cracked my voice. "I think... I think my water broke."
"Don't move. I'm coming."
The call ended. Within minutes, my door burst open and Marco charged in, still in his pajamas. One look at me, and his face went dead serious. He rushed to the closet, grabbed the hospital bag I'd packed weeks ago, then bent down to carefully lift me up.
"Hold on tight," he commanded softly, his voice steady despite the veins bulging in his neck.
"Marco, it's only eight months!" My teeth chattered as I gripped his shoulders. "Isn't it too early? What if the baby—"
"She'll be fine," he cut me off, taking the stairs two at a time. "I'll make sure she's fine. You'll both be fine."
He settled me gently in the backseat, wrapped me in a blanket, then raced around to the driver's side. The car roared in protest as we tore into the silent streets of midnight Tuscany.
The pain hit fast and brutal. The first contraction felt like a giant fist crushing my uterus. I screamed, my nails digging deep into my palms.
"Breathe, Elena." Marco's voice carried from the front seat. One hand gripped the wheel while the other adjusted the rearview mirror to keep eyes on me. We flew faster, streetlights blurring past the windows.
Sweat soaked my hair, plastering it to my forehead. "It hurts so much!"
"I know, I know," he said, watching me through the mirror. Those usually gentle brown eyes were filled with worry now. "I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you. Just hold on. We're almost there."
His voice was my anchor in the storm of pain. I locked onto his eyes in the mirror, trying to draw strength from them.
But then another contraction hit, even more vicious. The agony crashed over me like a tsunami, and in the chaos of my sinking consciousness, I grabbed onto the only lifeline I could find—those deep green eyes, that man who'd whispered in my ear with that low, magnetic voice, "You belong to me."
"Igor..." I whimpered his name.
In the mirror, I saw Marco's expression freeze. But he said nothing, just floored the gas pedal.
The next dozen hours at the community hospital were pure hell. The delivery room was stark white and freezing. Every contraction felt like someone taking a rusty knife to my spine, over and over. I gripped the bed rails until my knuckles went white. Nurses bustled around me.
"Push!" the older nurse shouted.
I pushed with everything I had, my throat releasing sounds that didn't seem human. The edges of my vision went black, consciousness floating in and out with the pain. In that extreme agony,only one image filled my mind—those deep green eyes. That bastard who gave me beautiful dreams, then smashed them with his own hands.
"Push! The baby's almost here!" The doctor's voice echoed from somewhere far away.
I closed my eyes, Igor's face filling my head. I channeled all the betrayal, all the heartbreak, all the rage into one final surge of strength and pushed.
"Waaah!"
A loud, clear cry reached my ears. I collapsed against the pillow, completely drained.
The nurse placed that tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle on my chest. She was so small, but so warm. I looked down at her, and she stopped crying. She had fine, soft blonde hair and curious blue eyes that blinked up at me.
My God. She was my daughter.
The delivery room door opened, and Marco walked in, looking haggard. His gaze fell on the baby in my arms.
"She's beautiful, Elena." He approached the bed, his voice hoarse.
I stroked her soft cheek. Suddenly, she pouted, that stubborn expression... way too much like Igor. That bastard—even thousands of miles away, he had to remind me I could never truly escape him.
Marco sat in the chair beside the bed. He stared at the baby for a long time, his expression complicated. Then he looked up, like he'd made some kind of decision.
"Elena." His voice was quiet. "I love you."
