9. GEORGIE
GEORGIE
Three months later…
The moment Gavin's car disappears around the corner, my stomach lurches.
Shit.
I sprint toward the nearest building, bursting through the doors and making a beeline for the bathroom. My backpack slams against the stall door as I drop to my knees, emptying what little breakfast I managed to eat.
Third time this week.
Monday, I blamed the dining hall eggs. Wednesday, maybe food poisoning. Now it's Friday, and denial won't cut it anymore.
I flush, rinse my mouth at the sink, and stare at my reflection. Pale. Dark circles under my eyes despite sleeping like the dead every night in Gavin's arms. My breasts ache more than usual—fuller, heavier.
"No way," I whisper to my reflection.
But my heart hammers because yes way. Absolutely yes way.
Professor Mitchell discusses market analysis and competitive strategies while I calculate dates in my head.
My period—when was my last one? Six weeks ago?
Seven? Hard to keep track when Gavin fucks me every night, sometimes twice, sometimes three times if he comes home stressed from whatever darkness occupies his days.
The lecture hall feels too hot. Too crowded. I grip my pen until my knuckles turn white, forcing myself to take notes I won't remember later.
When class finally ends, I check my phone. Gavin won't pick me up for a few hours—enough time to confirm what my body already screams at me.
The pharmacy sits two blocks from campus. I've never walked there before, always had guards trailing me at a distance, but Gavin mentioned something about a meeting today. Skeleton crew watching me.
Good. I need privacy for this.
The automatic doors whoosh open. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical. I weave through aisles of cough syrup and bandages until I find the family planning section.
Three boxes. I grab three different brands because one won't be enough. Need to be sure. Need to be absolutely certain before I tell him.
My hands shake as I place them on the counter. The cashier—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes—doesn't even blink. Probably sees college girls buying these all the time.
"That'll be thirty-eight fifty."
I swipe Gavin's credit card. He told me to use it for anything I need, but this feels different. Monumental.
The bag crinkles as I shove it into my backpack and head back toward campus. There's a bathroom in the Liberal Arts building that's always empty during lunch hour.
Perfect.
I lock myself in the furthest stall and tear open the first box with trembling fingers. The instructions might as well be in another language. Pee on stick. Wait three minutes. One line negative, two lines positive.
Simple.
So why does my heart feel like it's trying to escape my chest?
I follow the steps. Set my phone timer. Three minutes. The longest three minutes of my life.
The stick balances on top of the toilet paper dispenser while I pace the tiny stall. Back and forth, back and forth, sneakers squeaking against tile.
What if it's positive? What will Gavin say? He talks about getting me pregnant constantly—dirty words growled in my ear while he comes inside me, promises to fill me up and watch me swell with his baby.
But talk during sex isn't the same as reality. Isn't the same as an actual human growing inside me, depending on us.
My timer beeps.
Two lines. Bright pink and undeniable.
"Oh god." My legs give out. I sit on the closed toilet lid, staring at the test.
Pregnant. I'm pregnant.
Maybe it's a false positive. That happens, right?
I tear open the second box. Pee, wait, pace. Timer beeps.
Positive.
Third box. Same routine, same result.
Three tests. Three positive results. Three tiny lines that change everything.
I'm having Gavin's baby.
The realization crashes over me like a wave. Joy, terror, excitement, panic—all tangled together until I can't breathe. I press my palm against my stomach, still flat under my shirt.
"Hi," I whisper. "I'm your mom."
Mom. I'm going to be someone's mom. Me, who spent most of my life taking care of myself because my own mother couldn't be bothered.
But Gavin—he'll be different. He takes care of me, watches over me, makes sure I eat and sleep and study. He'll be an amazing father.
Won't he?
Doubt creeps in. What if he wasn't serious? What if those dirty promises were just heat-of-the-moment words, meant to make me come harder but not meant as actual plans?
No. I shake my head, shoving the tests back into my bag. No, he meant it. I felt it in every touch, every kiss, every time he held me after.
Decision made. I'll tell him today. The moment he picks me up.
I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and check my reflection. Color's returned to my cheeks. My eyes shine with something new—hope, maybe. Purpose.
Class. I need to get to class, act normal for one more hour, then Gavin will be here and I'll tell him we're having a baby.
The Liberal Arts building bathroom sits at the end of a long hallway. My footsteps echo as I push through the door, adjusting my backpack straps.
"Well, well. Look who it is."
I freeze.
Craig leans against the wall, arms crossed. That same entitled smirk I haven't seen in months twists his face.
"Craig." My voice comes out steady despite the ice spreading through my veins. "I have class."
"I told you I'd get you someday."
He pushes off the wall. I step back, hand diving for my phone, but rough hands grab me from behind. Two sets. Strong enough that my feet leave the ground when I try to kick.
"Let go!" I scream, but something bitter presses against my mouth and nose. Chemical smell. Burning my throat.
Craig's face swims in my vision. "Should've just said yes to the party, Georgie."
Darkness swallows everything.
Consciousness seeps back slowly, fighting its way through thick fog.
My head pounds—a dull, insistent ache behind my eyes that pulses with each heartbeat.
Cold concrete presses against my shoulder blades through my thin shirt.
The air tastes metallic, laced with rust that coats the back of my throat.
A warehouse.
Recognition slams into me with enough force that hysteria bubbles up in my chest. I swallow it down, tasting bile. Because last time I woke up in a warehouse, it ended with Gavin becoming my daddy. Last time became the beginning of everything that matters.
This time feels different. Wrong.
Testing my bonds confirms what my sluggish brain already knows—zip ties dig deep into my wrists, plastic edges sharp enough that the slightest movement sends needles of pain shooting up my forearms. My ankles are bound the same way, secured to the chair legs.
The metal frame doesn't budge when I shift my weight.
My backpack's disappeared. So has my phone.
At least I'm not bleeding. Nothing feels broken or bruised beyond the ache in my skull and the burning lines around my wrists. Small mercies.
Movement in the shadows makes my stomach drop.
A man emerges, his gait more of a waddle than a walk.
Short—maybe five-six at best. His belly strains against a button-up shirt marked with stains I don't want to identify.
A thick mustache droops over his upper lip.
The smell hits me first—cigarettes and sweat and something sour that makes my empty stomach revolt.
"Finally awake." The words scrape out of him like gravel through a drainpipe. "Was beginning to think my boys gave you too much."
I force my voice to work despite how my throat constricts. "Who are you?"
"Big Mike Luciano." He spreads his arms wide, expectant, like I should drop to my knees in recognition. The name tickles something in my memory—maybe Gavin mentioned him once. Maybe not. "Your boyfriend and I have unfinished business."
Boyfriend. The word sits wrong in my ears. Too simple, too insignificant for what Gavin and I have become. For what we've built.
For the baby growing inside me.
"Gavin will kill you." The words emerge steady, certain. Surprising me with their conviction.
Big Mike's laugh rattles in his chest—wet and phlegmy, punctuated by a wheeze.
"He'll try. But first, he's gonna give me everything I want.
His territory. His shipments. His connections.
" He shuffles closer. Too close. His hand reaches out, and my skin crawls before he even makes contact.
"And once I have all that, maybe I'll let him have you back. Maybe."
Tobacco-stained fingers brush my cheek. Rough, calloused. Leaving a trail of revulsion in their wake.
I jerk away, chair legs scraping concrete. "Don't touch me."
"Feisty." His grin shows yellowed teeth. "I like that. Maybe I'll keep you for myself after?—"
The doors don't just open—they detonate inward.
Metal screams. Hinges rip from their moorings with a sound that makes my teeth ache. The entire structure buckles, twisting, folding in on itself like paper under the sheer force of impact.
Then he's there.
Gavin moves through the wreckage like something otherworldly, something unstoppable. Gun raised. Every muscle coiled. The fury etched into his features isn't hot—it's arctic. Glacial. The kind of rage that doesn't explode but instead freezes everything in its path.
His eyes find mine. One second. Just one, where time stretches thin as wire. I watch him assess—alive, breathing, intact. Something shifts behind his gaze, a fraction of relief, before it vanishes.
He turns to Big Mike.
"Wait, we can—" Big Mike's hand scrabbles at his waistband. Clumsy. Desperate.
The gunshot splits the air.
Big Mike staggers. His chest—there's so much blood, spreading fast, soaking through fabric in seconds. His mouth works soundlessly, lips forming words that never come. Only a wet gurgling sound escapes, thick and awful.
He collapses.
More gunfire. Gavin doesn't pause, doesn't hesitate. Each movement precise, economical. Water through a channel, finding every gap, every opening. Big Mike's men barely have time to reach for their weapons before they're dropping. One. Two. Three bodies hitting concrete in rapid succession.
Then nothing. Just the ringing in my ears and the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the stale warehouse air.
Gavin's beside me before I can draw breath.
A knife materializes in his hand—where did he even have it?
—and the zip ties part with barely a whisper.
His fingers move over my wrists, my ankles, impossibly gentle despite the violence still vibrating through his frame.
He traces up my arms, across my shoulders, methodical and thorough.
Checking for damage I can't see, injuries I might not feel yet.
"Did they hurt you?" The words come out wrong, distorted. Barely recognizable as language. "Did they fucking touch you?"
"No. I'm okay. I'm—" My throat closes around the rest.
He drags me into his chest. One arm locks around my back, solid as steel. The other cradles my head, fingers threading through my hair. His heart hammers against my ear—fast, furious, alive.
"I've got you." His lips find my temple, pressing there like a brand. "I've got you, baby girl. You're safe."
Here, wrapped in his arms with bodies cooling on the floor around us, blood pooling in the cracks of the concrete, I'm safer than I've ever been anywhere else in my life.
But the baby?—
My hands drift downward, settling over my stomach.
The protective instinct comes swift and fierce, primal in a way I've never experienced before.
Words crowd my throat, desperate to get out.
He needs to know. Right now, before anything else happens, before fate decides to take this choice away from me too.
"Gavin." I pull back just enough to see his face. Those gray eyes bore into mine with an intensity that steals what little breath I have left. He's still cataloging, still searching for invisible wounds, reading the aftermath of terror in my features.
My palms press against his chest—the rapid thud of his pulse matches the frantic rhythm in my own ears. "I need to tell you something. It's important."
"Whatever it is can wait until you're somewhere safe." His arms shift, one sliding beneath my knees as he lifts me like I'm made of glass. My stomach flips at the sudden movement. "We're getting you the fuck out of here first."
"No, you don't understand—" The warehouse tilts sideways.
Or maybe I do. Everything spins in a sickening carousel of shadows and dim light.
That earlier nausea comes roaring back, mixing with the adrenaline crash, with the fear I'd been holding at bay while bullets flew and men died.
My fingers clutch at his shirt. "I'm—I need to say?—"
His face blurs at the edges. The ceiling stretches above us, those industrial beams warping and bending like I'm seeing them through water. Sound becomes muffled, distant.
"Georgie?" The alarm in his voice should anchor me, but it's too far away now. He's holding me, and yet it feels like he's calling from the other end of a tunnel. "Baby, look at me. Stay with me. Georgie?—"
I want to. God, I'm trying. My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds each. The words sit heavy on my tongue, so close but impossibly far.
Pregnant. I'm pregnant with your baby. Our baby.
Darkness creeps in from the periphery, swallowing the warehouse, the blood, Gavin's terrified face. His mouth moves, forming my name over and over, but I can't hear him anymore.
Then nothing at all.