The basement didn't have windows, so I counted time by the stinging in my wounds and the heavy, rhythmic thud of my own heart.
One week.
Seven days since I had last seen Adrien. Seven days since Valentin had dragged him away while I screamed, my heavy stomach making it impossible to even give chase.
At eight months pregnant, every movement was a chore, but my rage had been my only energy. Then Valentin took Adrien, and the fire went out.
Now, there was only the cold.
I sat on the edge of the cot, my back leaning against the damp wall to ease the ache in my spine. My hands rested protectively over the hard swell of my stomach.
The baby kicked—a sharp, frantic movement—and I closed my eyes, fighting back the urge to cry. Not now, little one.
The door opened. The light from the hallway was blinding, but I didn't flinch. I didn't even move my hands. I didn't look up until the polished shoes stopped an inch from my bare, cold toes.
