2.

Heat. Fingers digging into my flesh.

A breathless gasp, swallowed by lips that shouldn't have been on mine.

The air was thick..humid, electric, charged with something dangerous. My back hit the mattress, a strong hand gripping my waist, dragging me closer.

The taste of whiskey burned my tongue. The scent of sweat and cologne clouded my senses.

And then..blonde.

Golden strands tickled my skin, lips brushing my collarbone. A deep, low groan vibrated against my throat. Hands, rough and impatient, slid up my bare thighs, spreading me open.

Then..raven black.

A different touch now. Firmer, more controlled. Fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back. Lips against my ear, dark and demanding. A voice, deep and husky, sending a shiver straight through me.

"Are you sure about this?"

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

"Yes."

It was reckless. Messy. Too much.

And not enough.

A hand fisted the sheets beside my head. A sharp inhale. A whispered curse.

Bodies tangled, shifting. Hands gripping. Nails scratching. The sharp sting of teeth against my lower lip.

I didn't know where one of them ended and the other began.

And I didn’t care at all.

A blond head dipped lower. A hand tightened around my wrist, pinning it above my head. Their touches blurred together..heat and desperation, tongues and hands, fire and friction.

My breath hitched, my body tightening, the pleasure building—

Then—

A sharp jolt, like static electricity snapping against my skin. The world tilted violently—spinning, shifting—until everything crashed into darkness.

Cold.

I was cold.

I sucked in a breath, but it was like my lungs weren't working right. My mouth was dry, my tongue heavy, my throat aching. A deep, dull pressure sat in my abdomen, the remnants of something unnatural.

I wasn't in that room anymore.

Wasn't tangled in sheets, bodies, limbs.

No.

I was alone.

The beeping of a monitor filled the silence, steady and rhythmic. The fluorescent glow of hospital lights pressed against my eyelids. The air smelled sterile, too clean, too sharp.

I opened my eyes.

At first, everything was blurry. The edges of the room smudged together, and the ceiling above me felt too far away, like I wasn't really inside my own body yet.

Then, I saw her.

My mother sat hunched forward, head bowed, hands clasped so tightly together her knuckles were bone white. Her lips moved in rapid, urgent whispers..prayers. Desperate ones.

A terrible, twisting dread unfurled in my stomach.

Something was wrong.

I tried to speak, but only a weak, rasping noise came out.

My mother's head snapped up.

"Darcy!" Relief flooded her face as she lurched forward, her hands trembling as they reached for mine. "Oh, baby, thank God! You're awake."

I blinked, my throat burning. I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper.

"What... happened?"

She hesitated. It was barely a second. A flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. But I caught it.

Something was wrong.

Something was missing.

My heart pounded against my ribs, a sick kind of panic bubbling up in my chest. I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through my abdomen, stopping me cold.

"Ssh, don't move, baby." My mother smoothed my hair back, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You just came out of surgery. You need to rest."

Surgery.

The memories slammed into me all at once. The hospital. The doctor's words. The impossible revelation.

Pregnant.

I had been pregnant.

My hands flew to my stomach.

Flat.

Empty.

My breath hitched, a terrible, gut-wrenching realization slamming into me.

Where was the baby?

The heart monitor's beeping picked up speed, shrill and frantic. I turned to my mother, panic clawing at my throat.

"Where is it?" My voice cracked. "Mom, where is it?"

Her forced smile wavered, tears brimming in her eyes. She hesitated again.

And that hesitation shattered something deep inside me.

Because I already knew.

Something was wrong.

"No, no, sweetheart, don't get worked up." My mother shook her head quickly, smoothing a hand over my damp hair. "Everything's fine. Your baby is fine."

My baby.

The words didn't make sense.

They didn't belong to me.

I felt them settle in the air, hovering just above my head, refusing to sink in. My baby. As if that was something that could be real.

As if that was something that could belong to me.

I swallowed, my mouth too dry. I tried to form words, but my tongue felt like sandpaper. I was 18. I had gone to bed last night as an 18-year-old who had never even considered being a mother. And now, suddenly, I was one?

The thought twisted my stomach into something sharp and unfamiliar.

I forced myself to breathe. "Then where is it?"

Something flickered in my mother's eyes. It was quick, barely there, but I saw it.

She hesitated. Again.

Why was she hesitating?

"They're just running some tests." She forced a smile, but I wasn't fooled. I knew my mother too well. That smile wasn't real. "They just had to make sure... that everything's okay."

I swallowed hard. "Where's Levi?"

Her smile flickered, just for a second. "He's handling things."

That didn't make me feel better. Levi handling things? I knew exactly what that looked like. That looked like a storm brewing, fists clenched, a temper barely held together by the seams.

"Mom," my voice was steadier this time, stronger. "Tell me the truth."

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around my hand. "She's beautiful, Dar. Just like you were when you were born."

A tear slipped down her cheek.

My stomach turned to stone.

"Mom." My voice wavered. "What aren't you telling me?"

She sniffled and shook her head. "Nothing, baby. The baby’s perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. The nurses said she’s strong."

Strong.

Something about the word made my blood run cold.

Because no one called a healthy baby strong. They called a struggling baby strong.

I tried to sit up again, ignoring the searing pain in my abdomen. My mother pressed her hands down on my shoulders, gently but firmly.

"Darcy, stop."

"No." My breath came faster, more erratic. The heart monitor beside me beeped faster, matching my panic. "Where is she? What's wrong with her?"

"She's just in the NICU for a little while."

My vision blurred.

NICU.

Neonatal. Intensive. Care.

I was suffocating.

My fingers dug into the sheets as my mother cupped my face, her hands warm and shaking.

"Shh, shh. It's okay, baby. They just want to monitor her for a bit. She had a little trouble breathing at first, but she's a fighter. She's strong, Dar."

That word again. Strong.

Strong meant not okay.

Strong meant struggling.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip the IVs from my arms, shove past the pain, and find her. But my body was too weak, my stitches pulling, my breath shallow and labored.

My mother kept whispering reassurances, her hands smoothing over my hair, my arms, anywhere she could reach. She shushed me softly, her voice a steady rhythm against the erratic beeping of the heart monitor.

I was unraveling, coming apart in ways I didn't even have the strength to hold together.

But eventually, the panic dulled—not gone, just exhausted, like a fire burned down to embers.

The tears stopped first, then the shaking. My body still ached, and my mind still felt like it was clawing against a wall, but I let my mother's warmth ground me.

She didn't stop touching me, even as the silence stretched between us.

Then, slowly, she pulled back, exhaling a breath like she was bracing herself for something.

And I felt it before she even said it.

A shift.

A new weight pressing into the space between us.

"Darcy," she said carefully, her tone softer than before. "We need to talk."

I froze.

I didn't need to ask what she meant.

I already knew.

I could feel it creeping up my spine, sinking into my skin like ice water.

She wasn't talking about the baby.

She was talking about the father.

And just like that, the momentary warmth was gone.

I went cold.