I slide out of bed slowly, test the floor with bare feet, and stand still until the room stops spinning. I put on the clothes I came in with—jeans, sweater, boots.
Healthy baby, living sister. Everything else is noise. I’ll have to tell Clara the truth at some point, but I’m not ready for that yet.
I map the way out in my head. Best shot is the stairwell near the service alcove. Shift change is starting and phones are ringing in waves, people swapping charts and stories. Good cover.
I unclip the IV line and pull. The needle comes out, tape yanking hair out I hiss once and breathe through it.
I ease the door open a few inches and peek out. The hall is a long, bright tunnel. At the far end, Alex’s silhouette cuts across, shoulders squared as he speaks into his comm. He’ll likely loop back in thirty seconds. I do the math and move.
Quiet steps, eyes darting everywhere. The past few weeks have taught me how to be small and swift. I pass a supply cart that smells like lemon and bleach. A nurse’s sneaker squeaks behind a curtain. My pulse is a steady drum. I turn the corner toward the service door and hurry along.
Run now. Explain later.
I arrive at the main double doors and push. They open an inch, then stop. A hand closes over the bar from the other side. Calm. Immovable.
Of course.
His dark blue eyes scan me, then lock onto my face. No raised voice. No rush. Just the kind of presence that makes entire rooms sit up straighter.
“You were going to leave,” he says flatly.
“I was going to breathe,” I shoot back. My voice is steady and louder than I planned.
“By running.”
“By living.” I lift my chin in defiance. “Your world is a war zone.”
He steps inside just enough to ease the doors closed behind him. Not trapping, but the corridor shrinks anyway.
“Shots at your house. A car trying to wipe us off the road. Badges cloned to get in. Someone’s trying to kill me.”
“You don’t run with a shooter loose,” he says. “You leave with me, not alone.”
He guides me away from the doors to a small alcove in the hallway where we’re out of the way.
“You’re not hearing me.”
“I am.” His eyes narrow a fraction. “You’re running from me.”
Something in me snaps at his words. It’s a brittle, scared thing that’s been vibrating since the doctor told me I’m pregnant. I don’t plan the words, but they come anyway.
“I’m carrying your child, Damien!” I whisper harshly. The last thing I want is to make a scene.
He goes very still. His expression shifts into something I have never seen on him—fear. Not for himself, but for me. For something he can’t touch yet.
“A child?” The word comes out softly. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on behind his eyes at this moment.
He lowers himself slowly. Both palms lift and hover before carefully settling over my lower belly.
“You don’t understand, Cassandra,” he says quietly, “I can’t lose you.”
There’s a wet shine to his eyes that he refuses to blink away. This is not theater. This is a man with no script.
“I’ll give it all up—the Bratva, the power, every damn drop of blood on my hands,” he swallows hard, “if that’s what it takes to keep you and our child safe.”
My knees go a little soft. My hand reaches into his hair on reflex. I hate how natural it feels but love it anyway. Untouchable Don to desperate man in two heartbeats. I believe him, and that scares me more than any gun.
He lifts his chin, still kneeling, and keeps bleeding honesty. “I don’t beg, Cassandra. Not for my men, not for my empire, but I’m begging you now. Stay. Please.”
