Chapter 2

I woke to blinding white and pain tearing through every nerve I had left.

A voice shouted somewhere distant, already moving away from me.

"Severe internal hemorrhaging — get her into the blood ward, now!"

I was on a gurney, hurtling down a corridor. Overhead lights smeared into a single pale streak. The sharp bite of antiseptic and elder-herb tincture scorched my lungs. Somewhere deep in my chest, my blood sang a low, broken note — the instinct that lived in every vampire, the thing that kept us upright and hunting. Mine could barely flicker.

"Stay with us, my lady." A gentle voice near my ear. Cool fingers brushed the frozen hair from my forehead. "We'll take care of you."

Then another voice, more urgent: "Check her vitals again — she's eight weeks along."

Eight weeks.

My hand twitched toward my stomach, but I couldn't feel my arms. Panic spiked, thin and bright. I'd curled around my belly in the snow, taken claws and teeth across my spine to shield that fragile life inside me.

Please. Let the baby be all right.

"Her pressure's crashing!" someone called. "We need sire blood for the transfusion rite — without it, we lose them both!"

"The reserves are gone." Another physician, voice tight with barely contained dread. "Lord Ashworth authorized the last six units for a private patient in the cosmetic suite."

Lord Ashworth.

The name snagged in my dissolving consciousness. My husband. My bonded. The father of the child still fighting to survive inside me.

The gentle-voiced physician — Maren, her badge read — pulled out her phone. Her hand shook.

"Steward Lucian, this is Dr. Maren at the House infirmary." Her voice cracked despite her effort to stay composed. "I need to reach Lord Ashworth immediately. Lady Elara is critical. Massive hemorrhaging. She's eight weeks pregnant — we need his blood for the rite. Without it, we'll lose them both."

A pause. Muffled voices on the other end. Lucian relaying the message.

Then he returned. His tone careful. Regretful.

"His lordship says the reserves are allocated for Miss Hargrove. She's undergoing a procedure. He won't authorize a transfer."

Maren went rigid. Her knuckles blanched around the phone.

"Lucian, please — tell him his wife is dying. Tell him his child won't survive without —"

I heard Lucian pull the receiver away, his voice growing faint.

"My lord, your lady — she —"

"Celeste is my priority." Damien's voice sliced through the speaker. Cold. Absolute. "The blood stays with her. And hang up. Celeste needs rest."

The line went dead.

Four words.

Celeste is my priority.

Colder than the blizzard he'd left me in.

Maren stared at the phone. Her hands trembled. When her gaze found mine, her eyes glistened with something I couldn't name.

Pity. Horror. Shame for the man she served.

"I'm so sorry, my lady," she whispered. "I'll find another way. I'll —"

But I wasn't listening anymore.

I was feeling.

Deep in my belly, something flickered. Faint. Fragile. Struggling to hold on.

Then — weaker.

And weaker still.

My blood keened — a sound no one else could hear. Raw. Primordial. The sound of something being uprooted.

The flutter stopped.

The warmth vanished.

And then there was nothing. Just silence where a heartbeat should have been.

Gone.

My child was gone.

I waited for the grief to hit. For the scream to rip from my throat. For tears to come.

Nothing came.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, and felt hollow. As though someone had reached inside me and scooped out everything worth keeping.

Maren was weeping. Quiet sobs somewhere to my left. She was mourning my child more than I could manage.

But I couldn't cry. I had nothing left to cry with.

Damien Ashworth had taken everything. My dignity. My hope. My dreams of a family.

And now my child.

For a cut. For a shallow cut on another woman's knee.

When I woke again, the searing agony had dulled to a low, distant throb.

Maren sat beside my bed. Her eyes were raw and red.

"The baby..." she started.

"I know."

She said nothing else. There was nothing left to say.

I reached for my bag on the nightstand. My fingers found the black leather ledger inside and opened it to the final page.

The pen felt steady in my hand.

–1 point: He let our child die to spare her a scratch.

Entry one hundred. Final score: zero.

I stared at the number.

Zero.

A hundred entries. Three years of wounds. And now this — the last one. The one that emptied the account for good.

The child was gone.

And for the first time in three years, something settled inside me.

Not grief. Not fury.

Stillness.

The kind that comes when you finally stop hemorrhaging. When the wound cuts so deep it cauterizes itself.

I closed the ledger.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice surfaced. Vivienne's voice, from a phone call three months ago.

"When you're ready to walk away, I'll be here. New Orleans. I found this old cathedral on the riverfront — it could become something extraordinary. A sanctuary for vampires like us. The exiled ones. The ones who need mending. Just say the word, Elara."

I hadn't been ready then.

I was ready now.

I reached for my phone.

My fingers didn't shake.