I move quickly through the halls toward our bedroom.
The door is open. Sunlight spills across the rug. Peighton stands in the middle of the room, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand cradling her belly, her hair a messy halo around her face.
Her voice shakes. Anger. Hurt.
“You were a shitty father,” she hisses, pacing at the foot of the bed. “Just admit it. Admit you had her killed. Admit you had mom killed.”
I move closer, silent.
On the other end, her father’s voice is a faint rumble I cannot make out. Whatever he says next makes the blood drain from her face.
“What?” she whispers.
Her fingers tighten around the phone. Her shoulders go rigid. She sucks in a sharp breath, listening. Her eyes go wide. Whatever he repeats finishes breaking something in her. The color leaches from her lips.
The phone slips from her hand and bounces once on the rug.
She sways.
“Peighton,” I say.
She does not hear.
Her knees buckle and she crumples, her body folding in on itself in slow motion. I lunge and catch her before her head hits the floor. Her weight is heavy and limp in my arms, her limbs unresponsive.
“Peighton, hey,” I murmur, shaking her. “Look at me. Devushka. Open your eyes.”
Her head lolls against my shoulder. She does not respond.
Something wet spreads beneath my hand where her nightdress has ridden up over her thighs. I look down.
Blood.
It stains the delicate fabric. Slides warm between her legs. A thin, horrible river of red against her warm skin.
For a heartbeat, everything stops.
Then the world slams back into motion.
“No,” I breathe. “No. No.”
The voices erupt, a hurricane in my skull.
You will lose her. This is what happens when you love.
I roar at them and at the room and at fate itself.
“Help!” My shout bounces off stone. “Now! Get in here!”
Footsteps explode somewhere in the corridor. Doors slam open. Shouts answer mine. I barely hear them. All my focus is on her. Her too-still face, her fluttering pulse, the fragile curve of her abdomen.
I lift her carefully, cradling her against my chest. Her head drops against my shoulder, hair spilling over my arm. Her hand, with its wedding ring, lies limp against my forearm.
“Stay with me,” I whisper against her temple as I carry her toward the door. My throat feels raw. “Do you hear me? Stay. You are mine. You are not allowed to leave.”
Chapter 50
Peighton
