41. Willow
WILLOW
T he quiet thrum of the tires against the road was hypnotic, steady and low, a lull that settled in her bones. Willow sat in the backseat, buckled in, her knees drawn close together, hands folded in her lap. Lachlan glanced at her, his voice calm and professional.
“How are you feeling? That benzo kicking in yet?”
She wet her lips, shrugging faintly. “A little… floaty. Like my head’s a balloon.” Her words slurred just slightly, and she gave a soft, nervous laugh. “I guess that means it’s working.”
“Good,” Lachlan said. “It’s supposed to take the edge off so you aren’t nervous for surgery. Just ride it out and let yourself breathe.”
She nodded, settling back against the seat as a strange, slow warmth threaded through her veins. It wasn’t happiness, not really, but the sharp screaming of panic had dulled into something muffled, as if her head were wrapped in cotton.
The car grew quiet after that, silence falling like a heavy blanket.
The world outside blurred into patches of green and gray, unimportant compared to the ache inside her.
Almost without thinking, Willow’s hand drifted down to rest against her lower stomach.
Her palm pressed lightly, as though she could feel the truth of what was there with just the weight of her touch.
What if she let it grow? What if she gave it a chance to become something more than cells and possibility? She tried to imagine it—the tiny kicks, the curve of her belly, Milo’s arms wrapped around her with that proud glow in his eyes. A life growing inside of her that tied her to him forever.
The thought hollowed her out as quickly as it filled her. Fear and longing twisted together until she couldn’t tell them apart. She swallowed hard, forcing her eyes away from her hand.
The SUV descended into the underground garage, the sudden shift into shadow jarring after the light of day. The tires echoed against concrete, the air cooler, more sterile. Lachlan parked near a nondescript door with no signs, no markings. Just another gray wall hiding something monumental.
He got out first, circling to open her door. Willow slid out on shaky legs, her body heavier than she remembered, as though the consequence of her choice pressed into her muscles. Before he could take a step, she reached out, fingers clutching the sleeve of his coat.
Her throat burned, tears already spilling before the words made it out. “Lachlan… will you be mad if I ch ange my mind?”
Her voice cracked, raw and small in the cavernous garage.
He turned immediately, his face softening, no judgment in his eyes. He placed his hand over hers, steady and grounding.
“Willow,” he said gently, “this is your choice. Only yours. Nobody will be mad. Not me, not Milo, not anyone. Whatever you decide, we’ll stand by you.”
The reassurance broke her, her sobs rising again, but softer this time, as though his words had carved out space for her grief instead of adding to it.
Lachlan squeezed her hand, his smile tired but warm, like the kind of smile a parent gave to ease a child’s fears. “We can go home right now, if you’d like,” he said softly. “Or we can take a few minutes and talk it through before you do anything. Whatever you need, Willow. This is at your pace.”
Her chest trembled with another sob, relief flooding her veins. She nodded faintly, lips parting to speak.
And then the world shattered.
A deafening crack split the air, sharp and final. Lachlan jerked violently, his smile ripped away in an instant as his body twisted. His blood sprayed hot against her cheek.
Time stopped.
Her hand flew up, touched her face.
Red.
Wet.
Wrong .
Lachlan staggered back against the SUV, clutching his shoulder, breath caught in his throat. Her own body wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t listen. She stood frozen, staring, until the sound of boots and gunfire dragged her back into the moment.
“Lachlan!” she screamed, voice raw, her throat tearing.
Masked men flooded into the garage, monsters with rifles, shouting to each other over the ringing gunshots. The driver barely had time to draw before his chest bloomed red, his gun clattering uselessly to the concrete. He crumpled, lifeless, as his blood seeped across the floor in a dark pool.
Willow stumbled back a step, her vision tunneling, the urge to run screaming through every nerve in her body. Her legs twitched, muscles ready to bolt—but hands were already on her, rough and unyielding .
“No— No !”she shrieked, thrashing, nails clawing at fabric, skin, anything. But she was dragged backward, her shoes skidding uselessly against the floor.
A van door yawned open behind her, black and gaping like a mouth. She was shoved hard, her body slamming against cold metal as she landed in the back. The door slammed shut before she could catch her breath, sealing her inside.
The last thing she saw of the outside world was Lachlan bleeding on the ground, his face pale, eyes still locked on hers even as she was stolen away.
Her chest heaved, lungs burning as the van jolted forward. The metal walls rattled with every turn, every bounce of the tires. She pushed herself upright, clutching the side of the van with trembling fingers, her eyes darting?—
Two men loomed over her. Masks half-pulled up, their faces rough, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
One of them stepped forward, tilting his head as he looked her over. “What a quick, little slut,” he sneered. “Looks like he knocked her up. She’s pregnant.”
Her blood ran cold.
The other man barked out a laugh, cruel and sharp. “Not anymore. ”
The words barely registered before his boot connected, hard and merciless, with her lower stomach.
White-hot agony ripped through her. Willow folded, curling instinctively around the pain, a choked scream tearing from her throat as she hit the floor.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Every nerve lit up with fire, her arms wrapping protectively around her middle even as her body convulsed from the impact.
Laughter rang in her ears, echoing, blurring with the roar of blood rushing through her head. Tears burned her eyes. She couldn’t move, couldn’t fight—not through this pain. Her body shook, sweat beading on her skin as her vision smeared.
Willow could feel something wet between her legs, a sickening gush.
She forced her head up, blinking through the haze. Another figure shifted in the shadows of the van, sitting further back, too still. Too familiar. Her stomach dropped for an entirely new reason, icy fear cutting through the heat of her pain.
Her lips trembled. The word scraped out of her, broken, disbelieving.
“You?”
And then she was kicked again.
Harder.
And then the world slipped from her fingers, blackness pulling her under as the van thundered down the road.