Hadn’t asked if I was okay.
He’d just crossed the room in three strides, and pulled me against him like he needed to make sure I was real.
Like I might disappear if he let go.
He carried me out himself.
One arm locked tightly around my waist, the other cradling my head against his chest.
I could still remember the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
Fast. Relentless.
Gunfire had still been echoing around us.
Men shouting. Bodies dropping.
But he hadn’t slowed.
Just held me tighter.
Like nothing else mattered.
Like I was the only thing that did.
Now this.
My gaze fell back to the tests, my heart racing wildly.
All three were positive—leaving no room for doubt, no room for denial.
During those four weeks in captivity, my body had already begun to change.
At first, I’d ignored it. Written it off as stress.
Trauma.
The aftermath of everything I’d been through.
But it hadn’t stopped.
Morning nausea that left me doubled over on the cold floor, dry heaving until my throat burned.
Fatigue so deep it felt like it lived in my bones—like gravity itself had increased, making every movement twice as hard.
A metallic taste that refused to leave my mouth, no matter how much water I drank.
Smells—
God, the smells.
Everything was sharper.
Stronger.
And my body—my breasts—tender.
Swollen.
