Page 22 of Mortify

Three days.

Three days to take a test, to know for sure.

Three days to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do if I'm carrying Dylan’s baby.

Because one thing is crystal clear—he can never know.

If he's willing to sabotage my birth control to trap me, what would he do with an actual baby?

Use it as the ultimate weapon.

The permanent chain.

The leverage that would keep me under his control forever.

"No," I say aloud to my empty bathroom. "No fucking way."

If I'm pregnant, I need help.

Real help.

The kind that can stand up to Dylan and his connections and his threats.

I need the club.

I need my family.

But first, I need to know for sure.

Tomorrow, I'll buy a test.

Tomorrow, I'll face the truth.

Tonight, I'll just try to survive until morning.

My hand drifts to my stomach, protective instinct already kicking in. "If you're in there," I whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. But I promise—he won't touch you. I won't let him. Even if it kills me."

And given Dylan's escalating violence, it just might.

But for the first time in months, that doesn't scare me.

What scares me is the thought of an innocent baby born into this hell.

That's what finally gives me the strength I've been missing.

Not for me.

For them.

For the maybe-baby who deserves better than Dylan as a father.

Who deserves a chance at a life free from fear and pain, and control.

Even if their mother has forgotten what that feels like.

"I'll figure it out," I promise the maybe-life inside me. "Somehow, I'll get us both free."

The first step is admitting I need help.

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