Page 25 of When Love Found Us
“Are you sick?” I press. “That amount of puking doesn’t seem normal. You look . . . weak.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she goes still, her fingers curling around the hem of her hoodie like she’s trying to hold herself together.
Seconds stretch, and I almost ask again—until she finally exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I’m pregnant.”
I go quiet.
“You think?” I arch an eyebrow.
She shrugs, gaze darting to the floor. “I wasn’t when I ran away—I mean, I didn’t know. Or maybe if I had known, I wouldn’t have left him.” Her throat works around the words, like saying them aloud makes them more real. “It was later when I started feeling . . . different. I took a test, and it was positive.”
“But you haven’t been to a doctor.”
She shakes her head.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. This just got more complicated.
Taking her to the local clinic is out of the question. The second someone recognizes her, it’ll spread like wildfire. Until I have a solid plan, she has to remain almost invisible. The last thing we need is anyone looking at her too closely, asking questions she can’t afford to answer.
I glance back at Blythe.
She’s watching me, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to disappear like she’s waiting for me to tell her she’s on her own. But that’s not going to happen.
No matter how messed up this situation is, I’m in it now.
And I sure as fuck don’t plan on letting her walk back into the hell she escaped from. Because I know exactly how this ends if she does.
She’s going to end up like Therese Smith. And there’s the child who might end up like my brothers, or worse, like me. Twisting herself into knots trying to survive, making excuses as to why they have some noticeable bruise or a broken bone, carrying invisible scars that never really fade. Living under the rule of a man who breaks his family down piece by piece until there’s nothing left.
I’ve seen it before.
I lived it.
The way an abusive bastard rewires someone, convincing them they’re the problem. That they deserve every slammed door, every controlled breath, every insult disguised as concern. That if they just try harder, love better, disappear a little more, maybe they wouldn’t have so many bruises and broken bones. Or it wouldn’t hurt so much.
But it always does.
And if she goes back—if this man gets his hands on her again—she won’t be the only one paying the price. Her child will grow up in the wreckage of a war they never asked for, watching, learning. Thinking this is normal, or hiding while hoping that they don’t get used as a punching bag that night.
I grit my teeth, pushing down the bile rising in my throat. I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
“Blythe,” I say, my voice quieter now, more certain. “You’re not going back. That’s not even a question. I told you that if you were straight with me, I’d protect you, and I will.”
She swallows hard, blinking fast, her fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie. “You don’t even know?—”
“I don’t need to,” I cut in, my tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve seen this before. I know how it could end.”
Her lips part like she wants to fight me on it like she wants to tell me I don’t know a damn thing about what she’s been through. But nothing comes out.
Because I’m right.
She didn’t see the end, but I bet she felt it. Felt it creeping closer every day, she stayed, pressing in on her ribs, waiting for the right moment to shatter them. Felt it the second she ran, her pulse pounding in her throat, that sickening certainty that if she stayed even a second longer, she wouldn’t have left at all.
She knows exactly how she almost ended.
And she’s terrified it isn’t over. That he’ll find her. That next time, there won’t be a way out.
