Minutes. Hours.
The cabin is dark now, the bare bulb turned off, the only light coming from a crack under the door.
I can hear voices outside—Virgil and his men, talking about something.
The club, maybe.
Or their next move.
Or me.
I don't care about any of it.
I care about the baby.
My body feels like it belongs to someone else.
Every inch of me hurts—my face swollen and throbbing, my ribs screaming with every breath, deeper pains I don't want to think about.
But the physical pain is almost a relief.
It gives me something to focus on.
Something other than the memory of what just happened on that mattress.
I shift, groaning at the agony that explodes through my body, and press my bound hands against my stomach.
It's awkward, uncomfortable, the zip ties cutting deeper into my wrists as I contort to reach.
But I need to feel.
I need to know.
For a long moment, there's nothing.
Just stillness.
Just my own ragged breathing and the distant murmur of voices and the terrible, crushing fear that I've lost everything.
And then?—
A kick.
Small but strong.
A tiny foot or fist pressing against my palm, pushing back against the darkness.
I sob with relief.
The sound tears out of me, raw and broken, and I don't care if they hear.
I don't care about anything except this: my baby is alive.
After everything—the drugs they tried to give me, the punch to my stomach, the assault—my baby is alive.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice raw from screaming. "I'm so sorry, baby. Mommy's so sorry."
I curl around my stomach, protecting it as best I can, and let the tears come.
