The thought sends another wave of panic through me. I close my eyes and count my breaths, trying to keep it together.
"Listen," Ella says, standing. "You need to close up shop for the evening and go upstairs. Let me handle the rest of the day."
"I need to start prep for tomorrow," I protest weakly. "I can't just leave you with everything."
"Sam." Ella's voice is gentle but firm. "You're going to go upstairs and lie down, and I'm going to take care of it."
"But you have your own life," I argue. "Your event planning business. You have more than enough on your plate without babysitting me."
She shakes her head, already moving toward the back to grab the prep supplies. "I've got more than enough energy to handle all of it. Just go upstairs and take care of yourself. And the baby."
I don’t have it in me to argue. My limbs feel heavy, the kind of tired that goes deeper than just muscles. I push myself out of the chair and head for the back door and the stairs.
The stairs feel steeper than usual. By the time I reach my apartment door, I’m out of breath again, and the baby’s back to her gymnastics routine.
"Almost there," I whisper to her. "Then we can both rest."
I reach for the doorknob, and that's when I see it.
A piece of paper, folded and wedged into the gap between the door and the frame.
My hand trembles as I pull it free and unfold it. The message is written in a spidery hand, the letters precise and cold:
The child doesn't belong to you. It belongs to neither heaven nor earth.
The note slips from my fingers. I fumble with my keys, finally get the door open, and stumble inside. The door slams behind me, and I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, back pressed to the wood.
My hands go to my stomach, desperate and protective, and the tears come in big, ugly sobs that shake me all over.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the baby. "I'm so sorry."
Outside, the August sun keeps beating down on Caraway Cove, completely unaware of the mess unraveling in my chest. People go about their lives, and I’m here on my apartment floor, clutching my belly and wondering what kind of nightmare I’ve landed in.
The baby kicks, a gentle reminder that no matter how weird things get, she’s still here. Still real. Still mine.
"I won’t let anyone take you," I whisper, voice shaking. "I don’t care who they are or what they want. You’re mine. You’re mine."
But even as I say it, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m making a promise I might not be able to keep.
Somewhere out there, things I don’t understand are moving.
And they’re coming for my child.
Chapter Six
Nick
November at the North Pole is what mortals would call controlled chaos. Except there's nothing particularly controlled about it.
The workshops blaze with light around the clock, the whole place humming with the kind of noise that seeps into your bones. Machines grinding, voices barking orders, the occasional crash that means someone dropped something important. Coordinators dart past, clutching tablets and clipboards like their lives depend on it, faces pinched and pale. The air is thick with pine, cinnamon, and that sharp, electric tang that only shows up when we're all running on nerves and magic.
I should be out there, double-checking distribution charts, poking my head into the workshops, pretending I can keep all the plates spinning. Instead, I'm stuck at my study window, heart feeling like someone scooped it out and left an echo behind, watching the aurora paint the sky and trying to remember what it was like to actually give a damn.
Six months. That's how long it's been since I left Caraway Cove, and the ache hasn't faded. If anything, it's worse, like someone jammed a fishhook behind my ribs and keeps yanking,just to see if I'll flinch. Some days, I swear I can feel it buzzing in my bones.
I rake a hand through my hair and make myself turn away from the window. There's always work. If I keep moving, keep my head buried in the endless to-do list, maybe I can outrun the ache that's set up shop in my chest.
The door to my study swings open without a knock. Only one person would dare.
