CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Avery
T
ime doesn’t exist down here like it does topside, but by the size of my belly, I’m inclined to believe Sarah when she says I’m about eight months pregnant.
The baby moves often, letting me know my bean is happy and healthy. I talk to the baby often, singing, telling stories about how happy grandpa will be when they meet, and about their daddies. I honestly have no idea who’s baby it is but I think I’m happy about that too. Every fiber of my being wishes that the guys were here with me, sharing our baby’s milestones like normal expecting parents, instead of shackled in a basement.
Sarah continues to pretend we’re besties by over sharing her supposed interactions with the guys. I’ve chosen to block out all the psychobabble bullshit she spits about rekindling their love for the baby. The little devil on my shoulder begs for the bug to plant and fester, but true or not, staying mentally sharp is the key to survival. If playing her game leads to freedom, then I’m well on my way to becoming a dungeon master.
She believes I’m docile, that protecting the baby is my only focus, and she’s right. The baby is my primary focus, but not my only motivation. I’ll admit, she’s good. An opportunity still hasn’t presented itself the entire time I’ve been here. The shackle that’s now scaring my ankle has not once been unlocked while conscious. I’m assuming I have until the baby’s born before she gets rid of me, but that’s a guess. I’m an incubator, growing her baby instead.
But something’s different today. A shift in the air signals the tides are changing, insisting that I prepare. For what? I’m not sure, but the constant commotion upstairs sets me on edge.
After what feels like hours, Sarah descends the stairs and enters while balancing a full tray of food. You’d think that the beaming smile she greets me with is because of the very pregnant belly she’s wearing—a replica of mine—but it’s vindictive. Smug. Another tool in her arsenal tailored to fucking with my day.
“Good morning, baby.” She chimes, staring at my belly, before meeting my eyes.
I don’t respond. There’s no point. Her cheese hasn’t just slid off the cracker—it’s fallen, molded, and grown its own ecosystem. She hates when I interrupt her so-called bonding time with my baby. Loves to remind me that the baby needs to hear her voice—because she’s the mommy.
Barf.
Over. My. Dead. Body.
Which, unfortunately, is starting to feel like a real possibility if she doesn’t screw up soon. If this deranged bitch actually manages to kill me, I just hope one of the guys is smart enough to demand a paternity test—so they’ll know the truth. So they’ll know the baby was always mine.
At least then, they’ll have a piece of me.
The wicked gleam in her eye relays her confidence, which is part of my plan. I want her to believe I’m incapable—stuck—and at her mercy. All of which is true, but when the moment’s right, I’m going to pounce. “How’re you feeling today?” She coos, as if she gives two shits about how I’m actually doing. Again, the concern is only for the baby.
“Doing fine. The same.” My hand trails over the roundness of my belly, drawing fire to Sarah’s irises. Her jealousy is clear when I touch the baby or experience something she can’t. She’s not going to risk getting close enough to feel a kick, nor would I let her, but the snake wants to lash out. The little bun in my oven is the only reason she’s behaving herself. I’ve gotten hit with the bar a few times, never near the baby, but arms, legs, and head are perfect targets. I didn’t say I never tempted her. It’s the only rebellion I have. “Kicking like crazy.” By the twitching of her left eye, that one put her over.
A cackle that would put a pack of hyenas to shame slips past her lips before she refocuses on me, narrowing her eyes. “We’re going to try something different today.” She pauses, gauging my reaction, so I give her nothing. “You’re smelling—badly—and it’s wafting upstairs. When guests come over, I can’t have them asking about the smell or get curious and try to find it. Plus, you’re getting close to having the baby, so cleanliness is important. That’s why you’re getting a bath today!”
She’s acting like she gets to bathe her dog for the first time, but excitement zips through my veins. She’s bringing me upstairs. This is it! My chance. “That sounds heavenly. Thank you. I’d love a bath.”
Her eyes narrow again, always analyzing. “One wrong move, and whack!” She whips the bar out from behind her back and swings it towards me.
A startled squeak chirps free as I flinch, a reaction not fabricated, because she’s a fucking unpredictable psycho. “I’ll be good.” I rub my belly and hunch my shoulders, giving off the illusion of weakness, hopefully playing her right into my hand.
“Okay,” she responds slowly to my pleading. “But it’ll have to wait until later. I have an appointment to get to.” She claps her hands together like we’re all set and walks from the room.
Anticipation claws under my skin as the day ticks by. Counting the minutes is pointless after several hours pass. Breakfast is long gone, ensuring I have the energy for whatever lays ahead.
It seems as if an entire day passes before the front door slams closed and footsteps sound above. Impatiently, I wait. She spends time in what I believe to be the living room, bedroom, and kitchen, before her kitten heals clomp their way down the stairs.
The click of the key is as loud as a gunshot in the silent room, but then she’s humming as she sets another plate of food down. “Eat before you bathe.” She perches on the chair next to the door, waiting for me to finish eating.
She’s impatient. Distracted .
My mind drifts, wondering what her appointment was about, or if she even had one. She hasn’t mentioned Jaxton or the guys lately either, indicating things weren’t going as planned. In fact, I’m almost positive they’re not. Jaxton wouldn’t have been so distraught on TV if he wasn’t waiting and hoping with every part of him, I’ll return.
When I finish eating, I clean my area like a good pet, and sit back to wait for her direction. Submissively, while excitement vibrates under my skin, hoping the ploy will feed into the innocent act.
She slowly reveals a set of keys from her pocket, allowing me the time to note the shape, size, and color. “Go sit on the bed.” Her instructions are firm, trying to claim authority.
I do as she asks, floating with excitement. When my back is against the wall, she grabs my ankle. The release of the lock signals a new beginning, a fresh start, the ending point of this culmination of events.
My ankle is all the colors of the rainbow, sprinkled with dried blood, and itching madly. When I rub the offended area, an unintentional moan escapes. “Oh, thank you. It’ll be nice to get this soaked and clean.” Hopefully, the amenability doesn’t create suspicion.
She tsks, as if the mauled ankle is my fault. “I suppose we’ll have to treat that, too.” She sighs, exasperated. “Let’s go.” She points toward the forbidden door—stairs visible for the first time.
The first step is the hardest, when all I want to do is skip, run, and shout for freedom. Physically holding myself back, I step into an unknown future, knowing I’ll not surrender to that dungeon again without a fight.
We climb the stairs, but when we reach the top, it just ends. There’s no door or handle—the exit isn’t visible until she reaches around me and double taps the wall. It bounces back and reveals a hidden door.
Once we’re in the hallway, we pass several rooms on either side, their contents hidden by closed doors. The blackout curtains shroud the living room in darkness, an enclosure of secrecy masked behind pretty walls.
Sarah shuffles quickly, obviously nervous that I’m on the loose, and when we reach the bathroom, she shoves me in. “Sit down.” She points to the toilet.
When I do, she turns to start the bath water. The little voice in my head is constantly encouraging an attack, but practiced breathing keeps me calm enough to think rationally. I’ll only get one chance.
“Take your clothes off.”
The water temperature must meet her twisted standards because she turns back to me in the cramped space, issuing the command like it’s second nature.
My muscles groan in protest as I reach for the hem of my shirt, fingers trembling slightly from the effort. Everything aches—every movement feels like I’m dragging a boulder through wet sand. I tug the fabric up and over my head, wincing as my swollen belly shifts with the motion. At this stage of pregnancy, I’m not just tired—I’m a walking planet, and the shackle that was chained around my ankle makes even the smallest motion ache.
The moment I settle back down on the toilet, a wave of dizziness rolls through me, distorting my vision with a pulsating blur—like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a strobe-lit techno rave. Sarah definitely laced the last meal with something. It’s not the usual sluggishness of pregnancy or exhaustion—it’s chemical, unmistakable. My limbs feel heavy, like they’re underwater, and my thoughts start to fuzz at the edges.
By the time I’ve caught my breath and blinked away the spinning lights behind my eyes, the air is thick with tension. Irritation radiates from across the room—Sarah’s impatient tapping, her eyes narrowing as if I’m taking too long just by existing. The silence crackles between us, and though I’m the one drugged, somehow, I feel like I’m the one holding all the power just by not breaking.
Let her stew.
She gestures toward the tub with a flick of her wrist like she’s doing me a favor. I shuffle forward, dragging my heavy limbs with more effort than grace, and step in one foot at a time. The water is scalding, but I’m too numb to protest—until it touches my ankle.
The moment the heat hits the bruised, raw skin, a sharp hiss escapes through my clenched teeth. It burns like fire licking through already tender flesh, a pain so immediate and searing it sends a flash of stars across my vision.
Sarah rolls her eyes like I’m being dramatic. No sympathy. No patience. Just annoyance. “Oh, please,” she mutters under her breath, then places a hand on my shoulder and shoves me the rest of the way down. My body slips lower into the too-hot water, and the ache intensifies, radiating up through my leg as my ankle throbs violently beneath the surface.
She grabs a washcloth and lathers it with soap, the scent strong and artificial—cheap lavender with an edge of something medicinal. The cloth slaps against my skin, and she begins scrubbing with more force than necessary. There’s no tenderness in her touch, no care. Just rough, methodical movements like she’s scouring a dirty dish, not bathing another human being.
She starts at my neck, scraping the cloth down to my collarbone, over my armpits, across my chest—each pass a reminder that I’m powerless. She lingers at my breasts longer than necessary, her gaze flicking up to mine just to see the discomfort in my eyes. Then she works her way down—my stomach, my sides, my thighs—before finally reaching my feet.
And then she’s at my ankle.
I try to brace myself, but nothing prepares me for the way she digs the cloth into the raw skin surrounding the shackle. Her movements are slow, deliberate, cruel. She presses hard, circling the bruised flesh as if punishing it for existing. The sharp sting rips a whimper from my throat, my hands clenching the edge of the tub in a white-knuckled grip.
Her lips curl into a satisfied smirk.
“You’re so sensitive,” she coos mockingly, dragging the washcloth over the injury one more time with just enough pressure to make my toes curl in agony. “You should be thanking me. No one else is going to clean you up like this.”
I don’t respond. My jaw is clenched too tightly, and I refuse to give her any more satisfaction. Let her talk. Let her preen. Let her think she’s winning.
When she scrubs over the wound again—slow, cruel, deliberate—I can't hold back the instinct.
A sharp jolt of pain lances through my ankle, and I react before I can think. My leg jerks back on reflex, sloshing hot water out of the tub and soaking her front. The splash hits her square in the chest, and she gasps like I just drenched her in acid instead of bathwater.
Her eyes flash with fury.
“You little bitch!” she hisses, reaching for my leg with both hands, fingers like claws.
She wrestles my ankle toward her, her grip tight and punishing. I kick and thrash, trying to tear myself free, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum. Pain shoots up my leg as she yanks, digging her claws into my already abused skin.
"Hold still!" she shrieks, her voice cracking as her frustration mounts.
I don’t. I won’t. I keep fighting.
That’s when she loses it.
A high-pitched squeal tears from her throat, and the next thing I know, her elbow is flying toward me. It catches me square beneath the eye, snapping my head to the side so fast my vision spins. My temple slams against the porcelain lip of the tub with a sickening thud.
White-hot pain blooms immediately, blossoming behind my eyes like fireworks gone wrong. My hand flies to my face, cupping the skin beneath my eye as tears spring forward—not from sadness, but from pure, searing pain. My breath catches in my throat, and I curl inward instinctively, trying to shield myself from another hit.
The ache throbs in waves now, the fresh injury pulsing in time with the agony in my ankle. The two pains seem to compete with each other—trading off bursts of sharp torment, racing for dominance like twisted rivals vying for my attention. My skull pounds in rhythm, my nerves frayed and buzzing with adrenaline.
“You did this to yourself,” she snarls, standing over me like the devil in yoga pants. “You’re lucky I don’t let you rot down there.”
Her words are background noise, drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the stinging tears slipping silently down my cheeks. I can’t even see her clearly anymore—just the blurred outline of a woman who’s lost every last shred of humanity.
I don’t speak. I don’t fight back again—not now. That moment has passed.
Instead, I sit in the tub, limbs trembling, blood pounding in my ears, and plot.
She shakes her head like I’ve let her down somehow, like she’s the victim in all of this.
With a low growl, she snaps, “See what you make me do? You always force my hand.” Her tone drips with indignation, but I can see the adrenaline still pulsing beneath her skin, her hands trembling slightly as she regains control. “Now lay back. I’m going to wash your hair.”
There’s no use resisting. Not right now.
So I do as she says, reclining awkwardly in the tub, wincing as the cold edge of the porcelain digs into my spine. She moves quickly, scrubbing my scalp with enough pressure to make my eyes water. Her fingers tangle through my hair like claws, nails scraping skin as she works the shampoo in. It's less cleansing and more punishment in disguise.
Hot water streams over my face as she rinses, and for a fleeting second, I imagine just slipping under the surface and never coming back up.
But I won't give her that satisfaction.
She’s alert, twitchy. Not enough to let her guard down, but close. Her nerves are frayed, and I can sense the pressure building behind her smile, the cracks spreading behind her carefully constructed mask.
And if I want to get out of here, I need to find one of those cracks—and split it wide open.
She’s not going to give me an opportunity freely, but maybe... just maybe, if I push the right button, I can make one for myself. So, I do what she hates most.
I talk about them.
“You know…” I start slowly, my voice soft and calm like I’m just making conversation, “Jaxton only pays attention to you because he thinks you’re carrying his child.”
She freezes—barely, but enough for me to catch it.
The corners of my mouth tilt ever so slightly.
“He doesn’t really love you,” I continue, adding a sweet, almost pitying tone to my voice. “Not like he loves me.”
Her grip tightens in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to sting, to remind me that I’m still at her mercy. But I don’t stop.
“You can fake dinners, flirt, even pretend you’re playing house,” I whisper through clenched teeth, “but when he looks at you, he doesn’t see a future. Not anymore. That future belongs to me.”
Her breathing turns erratic. I can feel the fury pulsing off of her like heat waves in the middle of a desert.
“Shut up,” she hisses, voice dangerously low.
But I’ve struck a nerve, and I won’t let up now. Not when she’s this close to unraveling.
“I bet he thinks about me when you talk,” I add with a bitter smile. “When you touch him. When you lie next to him in my bed, in my house—do you ever wonder if he’s wishing it was me instead?” I know none of it ever really happened—just her twisted fairytale spun from delusion—but repeating it back to her still calls her out on her bullshit.
Her hand flies forward, slapping the water beside my face, sending a tidal wave over the tub’s edge. Her expression warps into something unhinged, eyes wide with that manic glint she gets just before she lashes out.
But I don’t flinch.
Because with every inch of power I take back—every jab, every truth—I chip away at her illusion of control.
“You’re delusional,” she seethes, voice sharp and shaking. “He’s mine. He always comes back to me. That’s how we work. You—” she spits the word like venom, “you’re a phase.”
“I’m the endgame,” I say simply, staring her straight in the eye. “And deep down, you know it.”
Her face twists in fury, and for a moment, I think she might strike me again.
Good.
Let her rage.
Because it means she’s scared. And if she’s scared, she’s sloppy. And if she’s sloppy, I just might finally get the opening I need.
Game on, bitch.
But she doesn’t back down—she matches my move with one of her own. Fury flashes in her shit-brown eyes, turning them almost molten with rage. Her expression twitches, contorting her face into something unrecognizable. It’s the kind of look that makes you wonder if you’ve just poked the wrong demon.
Her fingers twitch—barely a flinch—and then she strikes.
They wrap around my throat like twin vices, strong and sure and seething with madness. Her nails dig into my skin as she snarls down at me, trembling with the force of her rage. And then, before I can gasp, scream, or claw her off—
I’m under.
My head is shoved beneath the scalding water, a single breath slipping in before everything turns liquid and chaos. My eyes fly open in the sting of soap and heat, bubbles rising from my nose as my lungs scream for air. Her garbled voice rages above the surface, obscenities tumbling out in animalistic shrieks, but they’re muffled and warped through the water—nothing more than white noise in this hellish tub of terror.
Panic slams into me at first, primal and sharp. She’s snapped. Lost it. I’ve pushed her too far.
But then—clarity.
No. This is exactly what I wanted.
I still.
I let my limbs go slack, my mouth parting slightly as if surrendering the last of my breath. My eyes roll just enough to blur, and I stare blankly through the haze of water at her distorted face above. I twitch—once, twice—then nothing.
I go limp.
My arms float aimlessly at my sides, and for a moment, everything goes quiet in my mind.
Then it happens.
She realizes.
Her fingers release with a panicked jerk, splashing water everywhere as she scrambles backward, nearly slipping on the slick floor. Her breaths come in frantic gasps, eyes wide and wild with horror as she stares down at me like she just watched her world unravel.
She hadn’t planned to kill me. Not yet.
Not while I’m still pregnant.
Not while she still needs the baby.
Her hands rise to her tangled hair, fingers weaving through in a tangled mess of panic as she paces beside the tub, muttering to herself in disjointed phrases, murmuring over and over like a prayer—or a curse.
She bolts—absolutely panics—and runs from the room like the devil himself is chasing her.
And just like that... it’s my moment.
The moment I’ve prayed for, begged for, imagined a thousand times. The moment I’ve waited months for.
But I’m also seconds from drowning.
I burst from the water, dragging in a breath so sharp it burns—but I somehow keep it quiet, controlled, like survival depends on it, because it quite literally does. My lungs seize, a sharp burn flooding my chest as air finally fills my lungs. I don't even take the time to relish it. My ears strain for any sign of her footsteps, and I crouch low in the water, careful not to make a sound.
She's lost it—completely.
From the hallway, her hysterical voice echoes, bouncing off the cold walls like a horror film on repeat. “She’s dead! Fuck, she’s dead! What’d I do? Fuck. Fuck! What am I going to do? The baby. The baby!”
The panic in her voice is my confirmation—she’s distracted. Genuinely losing her grip, which means I need to move fast.
I reach for the oversized T-shirt she brought earlier and tug it over my head, skipping the undergarments. There’s no time. Every second counts.
My body trembles with adrenaline—part fear, part fury—as I scan the room for anything that could serve as a weapon.
And there it is. Sitting pretty on the counter like it’s been waiting for me all along.
The black metal bar.
My not-so-secret nemesis. Her favorite tool for breaking me down piece by piece. But today? Today, it becomes mine .
I wrap my fingers around the handle, surprised again by how light it is compared to the damage it can inflict. A twisted, dark smile tugs at my lips as I lift it. Fitting, poetic, and just the right kind of deadly.
You brought this into my life, Sarah, I think as my grip tightens. Let’s see how you like it now.
The water sloshes softly as I step out of the tub, wincing when the cool air seeps into the raw ring around my ankle. But I don't stop. Pain is irrelevant right now.
I tiptoe across the slick floor, careful to place each step with the precision of a predator. Her rambling continues—fast, broken, frantic. She’s pacing. Her feet slap against the wood somewhere just outside the hallway, which gives me cover.
I press my hand to the wall for balance, each breath measured and silent as I creep forward.
My heart pounds so loud I swear it might betray me.
But I keep going.
One step. Two. Three. My bare foot hits the cold floor of the hallway as I lean around the edge of the bathroom wall, scanning.
She’s not in view. Good. That’s good.
I inch down the narrow corridor, using the wall as my guide and muffler, the metal bar clutched tight in my hand, ready.
This is it.
This is what I’ve been waiting for.
This is how I get us out of here.
And if she tries to stop me?
She won’t be walking away this time.
Her voice drifts from the darkness like a broken melody, leading me through the shadows of what I assume is the living room. The room is pitch black, corners swallowed by shadows, making it hard to judge the size or layout. But I can hear her. She’s mumbling to herself, pacing in slow circles, completely consumed by whatever psychotic spiral she’s riding tonight. I cling to the sound, letting it guide me forward like a twisted game of Marco Polo.
She doesn’t even know I’m behind her. She’s maybe two feet away, standing in the middle of the room, gazing at the floor like it holds all the answers to her madness. Her voice is erratic—one second sobbing, the next muttering about the baby and Jaxton and how it wasn’t supposed to go this way.
I inch forward, steps silent and calculated. My fingers tighten around the metal bar clutched in my fist, knuckles turning white from the pressure. The cold weight of it grounds me—my weapon, my justice. My heartbeat pulses in my ears, a rapid drum that drowns out all thought except for one: Now. This is my moment.
I take a single step closer, then another. The anticipation coils tighter in my chest like a lioness crouching, poised to strike. Every sense is heightened, breath shallow, eyes locked on her oblivious form. My muscles tremble, but it’s not fear—it’s rage, adrenaline, and months of suppressed pain clawing to be unleashed.
Then I move.
I slip around the corner and strike before she has a chance to react. The bar comes down hard with a sickening crack against her skull. She cries out in shock, dropping like a sack of stones to the floor.
But I don’t stop.
I go with her, falling to my knees and letting the months of helplessness explode through every swing of the bar. Again. And again. Her body twitches beneath the weight of each blow, but I don’t give her a second to catch her breath or think of some crazy way to retaliate.
She’s not going to win. Not tonight.
She’s still now. Moaning, barely. Her arm twitches once, but she doesn’t rise. I scramble back, panting, wide-eyed as I watch the blood pool beneath her head. Not enough to kill her—at least, I don’t think—but enough to be damn sure she’s not getting back up soon.
My chest heaves. My arms ache from the exertion. But the fog in my head is gone. My instincts shift violently from fight to flight, every nerve screaming at me to go, go, go before she wakes up and I lose my chance forever.
I lunge forward and yank open the pocket of her hoodie, nearly ripping it off the seam in my haste. My fingers close around a set of keys— yes —cold and metallic and heavier than freedom itself. I don't wait.
I bolt for the door.
Every footstep echoes like thunder in my ears. My bare feet slap against the hardwood, slipping slightly as I tear toward the exit with months’ worth of hope lighting my path. My breath is ragged, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters now is the metal in my palm and the door in front of me.
Freedom is one lock away.
No key is needed.
The door flies open with the force of desperation, and I launch myself outside, lungs expanding with the first gasp of real air I’ve had in months. It hits me hard—crisp, cool, and unfamiliar. My bare feet slap against the porch as I stumble into the daylight, blinking against the sun that feels like a foreign entity after so long in the shadows.
It’s daytime.
Not just that—there are people. People everywhere. Kids laugh in the distance. A sprinkler clicks in rhythm across the street. Neighbors chat beside trimmed hedges. It’s a sprawling, upper-class neighborhood—one of those perfect little suburbs with pristine sidewalks, manicured lawns, and matching mailboxes.
And every single one of them has been completely unaware that their polite neighbor has been keeping a kidnapped, pregnant woman locked in her basement.
A scream tears out of my throat, raw and cracked. “Help! Please—help me!”
A man across the street jolts like he’s been hit with a taser. He drops his hose, mouth gaping as he takes in my soaked shirt, bare legs, bruised face, and swollen stomach. His expression shifts from confusion to horror in a matter of seconds.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” His hands hover in the air like he’s unsure whether to reach for me or not. “Come inside—I’ll call someone. The police. You need help.” He’s already fumbling for his phone, punching numbers with trembling fingers.
“No!” I shout, staggering backward. The last thing I need is to get locked inside another house. “Please, not inside.”
He freezes, nods like he understands, and turns the phone on speaker. “Yeah, uh—this is an emergency. A pregnant woman just ran out of my neighbor’s house. She’s... she’s terrified. Wet. Barefoot. She said someone was keeping her there.”
His voice fades as I crouch in the yard, trying to breathe. Tears blur my vision as I wrap my arms around my belly. I can’t cry. Not yet. I don’t get to break down until I know this is real.
The man’s voice cuts back in. “They’re on their way. Stay with me, okay?”
I let out a rough grunt of agreement, my mind still struggling to catch up with the reality that I’m outside… that I’m actually free.
He crouches beside me, not too close, and keeps the line open as I recount everything I can through trembling lips and foggy thoughts. I tell the dispatcher there’s a woman inside—Sarah. That she’s still alive, unconscious but dangerous. That she has a history of violence and delusions, and that she’s been holding me captive for months.
He listens, repeating what I say into the phone. He’s young, probably close to my age, and I see the disbelief warring with his sense of urgency. But he stays calm—stays with me.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with every heartbeat. My heart gallops like a wild horse, caught between terror and overwhelming relief.
The first cruiser rounds the corner like a silver bullet, lights blazing. Two more follow, then an ambulance.
“They’re here,” the man says, and hangs up.
Everything happens fast after that.
Officers swarm the house. EMTs gently lift me onto a stretcher as I try not to scream from the pain. I see hands, faces, badges—all blurred together as they speak over one another, asking questions I can’t answer fast enough.
One of the medics checks my ankle, the bruises, the swelling, my face. Another peeks under my shirt at my stomach, frowning, his mouth moving in rapid-fire communication with his partner.
I’m silent.
I say nothing, not until I see the glint of silver in the EMT’s hand. A needle.
“No!” I flinch, panic bursting through my chest like a shot of ice water. I slap his hand, knocking the needle away. “Please. No needles!”
The medic backs off immediately, hands raised in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he says calmly. “You’re safe now, Avery. No needles. I promise. We’re just here to help.”
I don’t relax. Not yet. Not until I’m sure this isn’t another trick.
I shift uncomfortably on the gurney as they wheel me into the back of the ambulance, eyes darting to every corner like Sarah might leap from the shadows. The doors shut. We lurch forward, sirens blaring again.
The medic picks up the fallen needle and places it into a drawer before sitting beside me. “You’re doing great. We’ll get you to the hospital. No more harm will come to you.”
I’m still silent. Still tense. Only the sound of the siren lulls me into a false sense of calm. Minutes later, we skid to a stop and the doors burst open.
There’s a blur of movement, flashes of blue scrubs and sterile white walls as I’m rolled into the emergency room.
Doctors shout commands. Nurses descend like a storm.
One older woman with a gentle face leans close. “Avery? Avery, honey, look at me.”
My gaze drifts to her, too heavy to focus. Voices fill the air. Someone says the baby is stable. Someone else mentions vitals. The chaos is overwhelming, spinning like a tornado around me.
“No needles,” I murmur, my voice barely a whisper, as whatever drug cocktail Sarah slipped into my dinner wages war against the last dregs of adrenaline pulsing through me.
“Okay, sweetheart,” the woman says softly, brushing hair from my forehead. “No needles. You’re safe now. We’ve been looking for you for so long.”
Her words crash into my chest like a freight train. My lip trembles. My jaw tightens. The floodgates break.
I sob.
Not from pain. Not even from fear.
From freedom.
“There, there,” she soothes, wrapping warm hands around mine. “You’re safe now, dear. We’ve got you.”
For the first time in months, I feel warmth. Not the kind that comes from food or blankets or lightbulbs. The kind that seeps into your soul and whispers you made it.
But just as I open my mouth to thank her, the world tilts. My limbs grow heavy, my breath short. Panic flares, but it's swallowed quickly by the exhaustion riding in behind it. The nurse’s face blurs and spins.
Someone yells. Something beeps.
Then everything goes black.