Page 3 of Filthy Lies

“I know.” Arkady’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder. “That’ll come. But first, we find her. Keep your head, brother. Without it, we’re lost.”

He’s right.

I know he’s right.

But God help me, I want blood.

2

ROWAN

Fanged heat tears through my abdomen and rips me from unconsciousness.

I gasp awake in total darkness. The pain is familiar now—contractions, stronger than before.

“Breathe,” I whisper shakily to myself. “Just breathe.”

As my eyes adjust, I make out dim shapes around me. Concrete walls. A metal door. Some kind of storage room, maybe. A single bulb hangs overhead, but it’s not on. As devoid of light as my life currently is.

Grim fucking metaphor, if we’re being honest.

Another contraction hits. I curl onto my side on what feels like a thin, mangy mattress on the floor. Sweat trickles down my neck despite the cold air.

Where am I? How long was I unconscious?

The last thing I remember is collapsing outside Vince’s panic room. So close. One digit left.

My hands fly to my stomach, feeling the tight, drum-like surface. My baby—our baby—is still inside me, but trying desperately to get out.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, rubbing circles on my belly. “We’re going to be okay.”

I don’t know if I believe it, but I need to say it. For both of us.

The contractions are coming fast now. Too fast. Maybe seven minutes apart? I try to sit up, gritting my teeth against the pain.

I’m still wearing my dress from earlier, though it’s now stained with blood and sweat. My thighs feel damp. Has my water broken? It’s too dark to tell.

All I have are questions. No answers. Not a single fucking one.

“Help!” I call out. My words echo and die miserably in the small space. “Is anyone there? I need help! I’m in labor!”

Silence is all I get in return.

I scoot backward until I find a wall. It’s cold, unyielding rock against my back, but I’ll take that over the empty horror of the dark unknown. My fingers seek out my wedding ring. I twist it anxiously again and again.

Vince will come. He’ll find us. He always does.

But will he come in time?

Another contraction tears through me, stronger than the last. I bite my lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood.

“Focus, Rowan,” I mutter through the pain. “You have one job now: keep this baby safe.”

I try to distract myself by taking inventory again now that I’m slightly more with it. But this scan doesn’t turn up much more info. No windows, nothing but concrete dust on the floor, and nothing that even remotely resembles a bathroom. Just the thin mattress and a lukewarm plastic bottle of water someone left nearby.

I grab the bottle and unscrew it with shaking hands. The seal is unbroken, which is nice, not that germs are at the top of my list of concerns right now. I keep my sip small and conservative. Heaven only knows when I’ll get more.

Heaven is also the only one who knows what’s going to happen next.

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