All Chapters of SINFUL SALVATION : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Three weeks had passed since the night Elias fell.Three weeks of peace. Three weeks of normalcy.It was strange, how quickly I had adapted to domestic life. I woke up every morning to the smell of fresh coffee and the warmth of Drake’s body pressed against my back. He had started making breakfast—simple things, eggs and toast and fresh fruit—and we would eat together at the marble kitchen island, his hand resting on my thigh, his grey eyes soft and unguarded.The penthouse had been repaired. The broken furniture replaced. The shattered glass swept away. It was pristine, sparkling, and safe.Drake had become... gentle.He went to work during the day, but he came home early. He would find me curled up on the sofa reading, and he would sit beside me, pulling my legs across his lap, and he would rub my swollen ankles until I moaned with relief.He talked to my belly every night. He read fairy tales to the bump—The Little Prince, Where the Wild Things Are. He pressed his lips to the tight

The weeks that followed were the happiest of my life.We fell into a rhythm, Drake and I. A soft, domestic, utterly normal rhythm that felt like a miracle after everything we had survived.In the mornings, I would wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Drake cursing softly in the kitchen. He had decided, with the stubborn determination of a man who had never been told "no," that he was going to learn how to cook.The results were... mixed.“Drake,” I said, waddling into the kitchen, my hands resting on my lower back. My belly was huge now, the baby pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. “What are you doing?”He was standing at the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, a cookbook propped open in front of him. A cloud of smoke was rising from the pan, and the smell of burnt butter filled the air.“I am making you breakfast,” he said, his jaw tight. “Pancakes. Fluffy, perfect pancakes.”I peered over his shoulder at the pan. The pancakes were black. Completely, utterl

The cabin was a secret.I didn’t know it existed until Drake pulled the car off a winding, gravel road deep in the forest, miles away from the nearest town. The headlights cut through the darkness, revealing a small, rustic log cabin nestled among towering pines. A thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney, and a single porch light glowed warmly against the cold night air.“Where are we?” I whispered, my voice hushed with awe.“Somewhere no one will find us,” Drake said, his voice tired but soft. “My grandfather built this place. I’ve only been here a handful of times. It’s off the grid. No cameras. No surveillance. Just us.”He parked the car and helped me out, his hand steady on my elbow as I waddled up the wooden steps. The cabin was small—just one main room with a stone fireplace, a worn leather sofa, a rustic kitchen, and a tiny bedroom tucked in the back. It smelled like pine, woodsmoke, and old memories.It was perfect.Drake lit the fireplace, the flames casting golden shadows

The fire died at 4:32 AM.I watched it go. The orange flames flickered, wavered, and finally collapsed into a bed of glowing embers. The warmth seeped out of the cabin, replaced by the biting cold that crept through the log walls. I didn't move to stoke it. I just sat on the worn rug, my back against the leather sofa, my arms wrapped around my swollen belly, staring at the dark, silent forest outside the window.I had been sitting there for two hours.Two hours since Drake had kissed me goodbye, whispered he loved me, and walked out the door.Two hours of silence.The clock on the mantel ticked—a slow, agonizing tick, tock, tick, tock that echoed through the empty cabin like a heartbeat.Tick. He's driving to the bunker.Tock. He's getting into position.Tick. He's kicking down the door.Tock. He's shooting.I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms to my belly. The baby kicked—soft, gentle, reassuring. A tiny reminder that I wasn't alone.“He's okay,” I whispered to the bump. “He's

The helicopter came at noon.I watched it descend from the cabin window, its blades slicing through the crisp, clear air, kicking up a whirlwind of fresh snow. The sound was deafening, shaking the log walls, rattling the glass.Two paramedics jumped out, carrying a stretcher. I had already packed our bags. I had already wrapped Drake in the warmest blankets. I had already kissed his forehead and whispered, "They're here. You're going to be okay."Drake was lucid now—weak, pale, but awake. He watched the paramedics approach with wary, tired eyes."I hate hospitals," he muttered, his voice a low rasp."I know," I said, squeezing his hand. "But you need surgery. The bullet fragments are still in your shoulder. You need a real doctor to get them out."He looked at me. His grey eyes were soft, vulnerable. "You're coming with me, right?""Always," I promised.The paramedics loaded him onto the stretcher. I waddled beside him, my hand never leaving his, as they carried him out of the cabin a