Chapter 34 Alina
Alina
Ever since our return from Iceland—especially after speaking with Lee—the sense of doom had clung to me like a second skin.
Each morning, I woke up nauseous, my body aching with exhaustion as if I hadn’t slept.
My skin had taken on a pale, almost translucent cast, and rage simmered beneath the surface, bubbling into sudden, uncontrollable outbursts.
Jack kept his distance. Carefully. Quietly. As if sensing I might erupt.
After weeks of vomiting daily and growing sicker by the hour, I finally forced myself to see a doctor. She listened patiently, jotting down notes while I spilled everything. Then she handed me a plastic cup and said, “Go pee in this.”
I blinked at her, stunned. I felt like I was dying—and she wanted a urine sample?
“Just do it, Alina,” she said gently, a knowing smile on her lips. “I think I already know what’s going on.”
I did as she asked, left the cup in the collection window, and returned to the exam room.
When I walked in, she was scribbling something, her eyes trained on her notepad. The silence pressed against me. When she finally looked up, her expression was somber and soft.
“You’re pregnant.”
The words struck me like a blow to the chest.
“What?” My voice faltered, barely audible. The room swayed. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the edges of everything.
I couldn’t speak—couldn’t even breathe—as a thousand emotions tangled inside me—shock, terror, disbelief.
Pregnant?
I gripped the edge of the exam table. How could this be?
And then it hit me.
The memory surfaced like a whisper in the dark—the day Jack and I had found the dagger. The fire between us. The reckless passion.
The doctor handed me a tissue, and I wiped my tears, though it felt pointless. I wasn’t crying from joy. I was distraught.
I thought of the future—the kind of future I never chose. I didn’t want this baby. The very idea of motherhood sickened me. Again? In this century? I had already been a mother once, long ago, in the 1700s. That life had ended in pain and blood. Why should I repeat it?
I had one purpose when I came here—to find the Sun and Moon Daggers, drown this world in darkness, and force Balthazar to kneel before me.
Instead, I was stuck—trapped in a loveless marriage with Jack, bearing his child like a curse. Every breath felt like poison. His touch, his voice, and even how he looked at me made my skin crawl.
And then there was Zara. Balthazar’s former lover. Her cruel laughter echoed in my mind like a haunting lullaby.
I wasn’t just angry. I was consumed.
I stormed out of the room, jaw clenched, fury pounding in my temples. Door after door, I yanked open, desperate to escape, breathe, destroy something—anything.
My mind spun in fog, and I lost track of the hallways. Then, I turned a corner and stopped cold.
What I saw nearly dropped me to my knees.
Balthazar.
Cradling a baby.
His eyes were red, wet with tears. He stood over a hospital bed, and in it—her. A woman. Pale. Fragile. Beautiful. Too beautiful.
Something inside me snapped.
This was betrayal—a dagger to the gut.
She had stolen him from me.
I would kill her. I would rip her from this world and leave him to suffer. Let Balthazar raise a child alone while I hunted the Moon Dagger and burned every piece of this life to ash.
“Can I help you?” A nurse stepped into view, blocking my line of sight.
“I… I… Exit,” I stammered, trying to peer past her.
The nurse gently placed her hands on my shoulders and turned me around. “That way. Straight ahead, then right at the end of the hall.”
I walked numbly, but inside I was burning. Had Balthazar seen me? Would he come after me next? Would he kill me like he had so many before?
The nurse disappeared down the corridor, and I hesitated.
Then, like a shadow slipping backward, I retraced my steps.
I had to act. That woman in the room was the reason everything had fallen apart. I would erase her before anyone even knew I was there.
When Balthazar stepped away from the room, I darted into the nearest bathroom, kept the lights off, and opened the door just a bit. His footsteps echoed closer. He paused, looked right at me. Shit.
I slammed the door shut and held my breath.
Seconds passed. A full minute. Silence.
When I opened the door again, the hallway was empty.
Grabbing a nearby medical cart, I pushed it methodically down the corridor, pretending I belonged there—just another nurse on rounds.
The scent of antiseptic clung to the air as I neared her room. Inside, the low hum of conversation. A doctor and two nurses stood by the bed, speaking in hushed tones as they checked vitals, scribbled notes, and adjusted machines. The woman—pale, weak, helpless—lay still among the wires and tubes.
I crouched around the corner and waited, heart pounding against my ribs. Sweat dripped into my eyes.
Then, they left. Clipped footsteps retreated toward the elevator. Doors dinged shut.
Now.
I slipped inside.
Her eyes fluttered open when she saw me. Recognition. Fear. I smiled coldly.
She didn’t deserve him. None of them did.
Without hesitation, I grabbed a pillow and pressed it over her mouth.
She fought. Weakly. Pathetically. Her limbs flailed beneath the blanket, her eyes wide with panic.
But I held steady.
And then… stillness.
The silence afterward was deafening.
I stood over her, chest heaving. My pulse thundered in my ears.
Quickly, I scanned the room. No cameras. No witnesses. Nothing to tie me here.
I wiped the doorknob with my sleeve, tossed the pillow back in place, and slipped out into the night.
The cool air hit me like a slap, but I welcomed it. I had done what needed to be done.
No one would ever know.
Or so I thought.