No.
Not betraying.
Breaking.
Harris had ordered two burly men to beat me.
To punch my stomach.
Again. And again. And again.
Until the fragile life forming inside me could no longer hold on.
Until my body gave up what it had barely begun to protect.
The copper scent of blood flooded the air between my thighs.
Warm. Thick. Final.
I didn’t even know I was carrying that child.
I never got the chance to love them.
Twice.
Two babies.
Not lost.
Taken.
Torn from me by violence. By cruelty.
I lifted my gaze to Harris.
If not for the gun in his hand — steady, smug, cowardly — I would have launched myself at him without hesitation.
I would have wrapped my hands around his throat.
I would have killed him.
The way I killed Hargrove.
Another life.
Gone.
My fingers dug into my own arms so hard that pain radiated through my skin, trying to anchor me to the present.
Why me?
The question looped inside my head like a broken record.
Why does it never stop?
Why does survival always demand loss?
My thoughts shifted suddenly to Daphne.
