Page 13 of Filthy Lies

She is the way.

Everything else is merely a distraction.

“We need to move now,” Daniel says, breaking into my thoughts. “If she’s truly in labor, we don’t have much time.”

“Lead the way.” I gesture toward the exit.

As we move through the darkness, an odd sense of clarity washes over me. I always thought I understood power. The power of fear, of money, of violence.

But real power, I realize now, is what Rowan has over me.

Power isn’t what I’ve spent my life accumulating.

Power is what I feel for her.

And if that power is enough to make me ally with a Petrov, it’s certainly enough to tear apart every Solovyov standing between us.

I just pray we’re not too late.

Hold on, Rowan.

I’m coming for you.

Just hold on.

6

ROWAN

My body splits open.

There’s no other way to describe it. I am being torn in half, ripped apart from the inside out. My screams don’t even sound human anymore.

“Push,” the doctor commands. “This is it. One more time.”

I don’t think I can. I’ve given everything. Every ounce of strength, every molecule of fight. But then I remember whose child this is—mine and Vince’s. Stubbornness runs in both our bloodlines.

“You can do it,” the doctor says firmly when I open my mouth to tell him I can’t. “The head is right there. One more push.”

I close my eyes and think of Vince. It’s so easy to conjure him up. Despite everything, it’s like he’s right here with me. I’ve got his blue eyes in my vision, his touch on my shoulders, his heat pressed up against my side. And then there are all the things you can’t see or touch that are here anyways.

The wry twist of his smile and what it does to my insides. His fire, his rage, his passion. His absolute refusal to give up on anything he wants.

And God, do I want this baby to live.

I dig deep, gathering whatever shreds of energy remain in my broken body, and push with everything I have left. The pain is blinding, obliterating all thought.

Then, suddenly—release.

A rush of pressure giving way.

And a scream.

A scream that isn’t mine.

“A girl,” the doctor announces, his voice thick with relief. “You have a daughter.”

The world stops spinning for one perfect moment. I blink through sweat and tears to see a tiny, purple-red body squirming in the doctor’s hands. She’s covered in blood and vernix, her face scrunched in outrage, lungs working perfectly as she announces her arrival with furious cries.

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