Chapter 30
Brooke
Seth’s voice cuts through everything, low with barely restrained fury.
“Beau. Call the doctor. Now!”
Beau doesn't argue. He is already pulling out his phone.
Seth’s eyes move fast, cataloging every inch of damage. His hands check my arms, my ribs, then hover near my side again like he is forcing himself not to grab too hard.
“Anywhere else?” he asks. “Shot? Cut? Anything you didn’t tell me?”
I shake my head.
His jaw tightens. The muscles along it jump. His grip closes just enough for me to feel how hard he is holding himself in place.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
“You’re here,” he tells me. “I’ve got you. Stay with me.”
I try to speak and fail. My legs won't stop shaking. The dress is heavy and cold as it clings to me, soaked through with blood, dirt, and rain. Every drop tapping against the roof of the SUV sounds too loud.
Beau shouts from the front seat. “Doctor’s ready. We’re going now.”
Seth nods once, then wraps himself around me as we move, pulling me back against his chest. In the SUV, he holds me there, one arm locked over my middle, the other covering my bandaged wrist, his grip firm and grounding.
Even as I blink and breathe, everything still feels unreal. The headlights smear into pale streaks through the rain. Travis is saying something up front, but it barely registers. The only thing keeping me anchored is the violent, steady rhythm of Seth’s heart against my spine.
By the time we pull into the gated medical facility, the shock still has not worn off.
I feel wired and hollow at the same time. It is like adrenaline is still buzzing in my veins, but my brain has disconnected. I am watching myself from above, floating somewhere distant while my body sits limp in Seth’s arms.
The SUV stops.
Seth is already out, rain soaking his hair and shirt as he lifts me. He doesn't ask. He doesn't speak. He just carries me carefully, like letting me touch the ground again is not an option.
The door opens before he can knock.
A tall man in his late fifties stands there in a white coat over black scrubs, already moving aside.
“Bring her in,” he says.
Seth carries me down a quiet hallway and into a room that smells faintly of antiseptic and metal. Machines hum softly along one wall. The lights are low but bright enough to make my head ache.
“You can lay her there,” the doctor nods toward the bed.
Seth sets me down with careful hands, like he is afraid pressure alone might undo me. His fingers brush my hair back, then still when his eyes drop to the blood-darkened fabric at my waist.
“She’s hurt,” his voice stays controlled, but urgent. “She’s pregnant. I–I saw blood down there. You need to check that now.”
The doctor pauses for half a second, then nods.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “We’ll start there.”
He washes his hands and pulls on gloves. Seth stays close, one hand braced at my side, the other gripping the edge of the mattress hard enough that his knuckles blanch.
“I need a timeline,” the doctor steps in close. “When did the bleeding start?”
“Yesterday,” my voice sounds detached. “After they drowned me. I woke up cramping. Then it didn’t stop.”
He nods once. “Do you know how far along you are?”
“No.”
His eyes flick to Seth for half a second, then back to me.
“Any clots? Tissue?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
He adjusts the bed slightly and folds the sheet down. He places a hand low on my abdomen, pressing gently, then deeper. His fingers assess the firmness, the tenderness. I flinch despite myself.
“Pain here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He nods again.
“Vitals are stable,” he mutters more to himself than to us. “We’ll confirm with imaging.”
He wheels the ultrasound machine closer.
Seth leans down, his forehead brushing mine.
“You don’t have to look,” he holds my hand. “I’ll do it.”
I don't answer.
The cold gel hits my skin. The probe follows, pressing just above my pelvic bone. The doctor moves it with practiced control, angling, rotating, adjusting pressure.
The machine hums. The screen flickers with shifting gray shapes.
The doctor leans closer.
Seth leans too.
“Tell me what you see,” Seth says quietly.
“I will,” the doctor replies.
He adjusts the angle again. Presses slightly deeper. Studies the monitor in silence.
Seth feels it first. His hand around mine goes rigid.
The doctor freezes for a fraction of a second, then continues scanning, slower now. He traces the area again, confirming.
“There’s no cardiac activity,” he says finally. “Measurements are consistent with approximately ten weeks.”
Seth doesn't move. He doesn't speak. His thumb brushes once over my knuckles.
The doctor keeps going. “The bleeding you described suggests this began prior to the drowning event. Your body has not completed the process. There’s retained tissue.”
Seth’s grip tightens painfully around my hand.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
The doctor holds his gaze.
“Yes.”
Seth’s shoulders go rigid. Something dark flickers behind his eyes.
“What does she need?”
The doctor turns the screen away. “We’ll need to perform a quick procedure to remove the remaining tissue. If we don’t, she risks infection and hemorrhage.”
Seth nods once. “Do it.”
The doctor looks to me.
“Is that okay?”
I search for a reaction. Grief. Panic. Anything that feels proportional.
There is nothing.
“Okay,” I say.
The doctor explains what will happen in simple terms. Cleaning. Making sure nothing remains. Monitoring afterward. The words drift in and out like they aren't meant for me.
I focus on Seth instead.
He stands so close to the bed his knee presses into the frame. His hands keep clenching and releasing at his sides, like he is holding something back with sheer force. His face is rigid, eyes glassy but locked on me, like looking away might make this real.
He leans down again, his mouth near my ear.
“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
They position me and numb me. I feel pressure, movement, hands working where I can't see. I stare at Seth the entire time.
I watch his jaw tighten when the doctor begins. I watch him turn his head slightly, like he can't stand to look but can't leave either.
I feel nothing.
I don't feel pain, grief, or fear.
Just distance.
It is like I'm floating somewhere above my body, watching it happen to someone else.
Seth reaches for my hand again, and I let him take it. His grip is too tight, his fingers trembling. He presses his forehead to my knuckles for just a second, like he needs that contact to stay upright.
“I’m sorry.”
I can't respond.
I don't know how.
I keep staring at his face instead, at the way this is breaking him in real time. His eyes are red now. His mouth is drawn tight, the muscles in his neck standing out as he swallows again and again.
He feels everything.
And I feel nothing.
That realization scares me more than the manor ever has.
I lie there, numb and quiet, watching the person I love fall apart for something my body has already let go of, and I wonder what is wrong with me that I can't cry.
I wonder if the numbness will ever leave.
I wonder if I will wake up one day and finally feel it all at once.