It became shallower, a quiet sign of panic creeping in at the edges.
Then I saw it—her hand, moving instinctively, slipping beneath the blanket to rest over the slight swell there.
Protecting. Hiding. Ashamed.
My chest tightened, hard.
Three months.
Three months since I found her in that pit, pulled her out, and tried to help her heal—only to realize she was carrying an unwanted pregnancy she never asked for.
A consequence of monsters. Too many men. Too many nights.
My father’s guests. Paying. As if it meant nothing. As if she meant nothing.
We never knew who. Maybe him. Maybe one of the others. The uncertainty was its own cruelty—a wound that refused to heal.
I hated it.
Not the child for existing, but for what it represented—for what it would always mean.
A daily reminder. A scar that breathed.
But I never spoke of it.
Not to her. Never.
That choice—that burden—was hers alone, and she carried it the way she carried everything else: silently, without complaint, without asking for help.
My jaw tightened as I reached forward, placing my hand over hers where it rested against her stomach—not claiming, not questioning, just there, steady and protective.
My other arm moved around her shoulders, careful and measured, drawing her gently toward me.
She resisted for a moment, then leaned in, resting her forehead against my chest.
I could feel her breathing—trembling.
I held her a little tighter—enough for her to feel it, but not to feel trapped.
Just held. Safe.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered against her hair.
The words were quiet, but certain. “Always. No matter what comes next.”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.
Her fingers curled into my shirt, gripping the blood-soaked fabric like a fragile anchor.
Her breaths softened against my chest, still uneven, but steadier with each passing moment.
So I stayed there—on my knees, in the dirt—holding her until the shaking eased, until her breathing settled, until the wind carried away the sharp scent of blood and left something quieter behind.
Something close to peace.
When I finally pulled back, I didn’t release her immediately.
My hands lingered—one at her shoulder, the other still resting lightly over hers—grounding her, anchoring her, making sure she was steady before I let the world touch her again.
