“And the cravings,” I continue, rubbing my temple lightly as I remember. “Pickles. Spicy ramen. Orange slices at three in the morning.”
Her laughter fills the room softly, warm and genuine. “Pregnancy cuisine,” she remarks. “Gourmet.”
“I woke up yesterday convinced I needed pineapple and chili powder.”
She leans back in the chair and studies me with amused disbelief. “You have officially entered the bizarre food phase.”
I lift one shoulder. “It might get worse.”
“Oh, it will,” she replies with cheerful confidence. “Just wait until you start combining things that should never exist on the same plate.”
The quiet humor eases tension I didn’t fully recognize sitting beneath my ribs. For a few minutes, we fall into familiar territory, trading hospital stories about overcrowded emergency rooms and the rare patients who somehow defy every medical prediction.
We talk about a complicated surgery Lila performed the week before the kidnapping, and the stubborn cardiologist who refused to leave the operating room until the final sutures were finished.
The easy flow of the conversation pulls us back into a version of the friendship we had before everything went sideways, and it almost feels normal again. For a short while, the war surrounding Kiren and his world fades into the background.
Lila lifts her tea again and glances toward the window beside me. Snow continues falling across the estate while security lights glow along the distant perimeter, and the quiet lingers comfortably between us until movement at the far edge of the property catches my attention. Headlights moving fast.
I straighten, the mug pausing halfway to my lips while my eyes focus through the glass. Several beams cut across the darkness near the outer grounds, sweeping along the tree line in tight arcs. Security vehicles moving far faster than usual. My stomach tightens immediately, and the change in my posture draws Lila’s attention.
“What is it?” she asks, leaning forward.
I lower the mug onto the table and rise from the sofa, stepping closer to the window while my eyes follow the movement outside. More lights appear along the outer grounds, and the distant sound of engines grows louder as several vehicles converge near the gate. A quiet pressure builds in my chest.
“That’s not routine patrol,” I murmur, my eyes fixed on the distant movement.
Lila pushes herself upright in the chair, one hand braced carefully against the armrest as she turns toward the window.
Before either of us speaks again, a gunshot cracks through the night. The sound cuts across the snowy estate like breaking glass.
For a fraction of a second, my brain searches for a harmless explanation. A branch breaking beneath heavy snow. A door slamming somewhere outside. The mind always reaches for ordinary reasons first. The second shot removes that possibility. Lila gasps behind me, and I am already moving.
“Hallway,” I instruct, my voice calm in the same tone I use during chaotic trauma cases when nurses look to me for direction. “Away from the windows.”
Another burst of gunfire erupts from the outer grounds, the sound echoing across the property while the estate’s security lights blaze to life along the perimeter. Bright white beams flood the darkness beyond the trees and sweep across the driveway, turning the falling snow into a cloud of drifting crystals that flash in the light.
Lila rises from the chair, one arm tightening instinctively around her side. The healing wound beneath her sweater limits howquickly she can move, and the small strain in her face reminds me how recent the injury still is.
I cross the room quickly and guide her toward the doorway, one hand hovering near her elbow in case her balance slips. The house suddenly feels too open as another crack of gunfire splits the air outside, followed by two more in rapid succession. Voices carry faintly across the distance, men shouting somewhere beyond the outer grounds, their words breaking apart before they reach us.
I guide Lila through the doorway and into the interior hallway, where thick walls and distance provide more protection than the wide glass of the sitting room.
“Easy,” I murmur when she draws in a tight breath. “Slow steps.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, though her hand presses instinctively against the bandaged wound at her side, protecting it from the pull of the sutures when she moves.
More gunfire erupts outside. The sound rolls across the estate in uneven bursts now. Multiple weapons. Short, rapid sequences followed by heavier cracks that echo against the stone walls of the house.
My pulse picks up even though I keep my breathing slow. The gunshots sound louder now, close enough to feel immediate. Lila turns toward the sitting room behind us.
“Who is that?” she asks quietly.
My eyes move to the narrow window at the far end of the hallway, where the estate grounds lie beneath the security lights.
“Not security.”
Another burst of gunfire erupts near the outer gate. Through the glass, I catch movement across the snow as several figures push forward along the perimeter road. Not one attacker. A group of dark shapes moving quickly.
