I sit propped up against the stiff pillows of an examination bed in the hospital’s OB-GYN suite, the thin paper sheet rustling softly beneath me every time I shift my weight.
An IV line tugs gently at the back of my left hand, dripping hydration and mild pain medication steadily into my veins.
Locke hasn’t sat down once.
He stands right beside the bed, his broad shoulder wedged against the metal railing, holding my right hand in both of his. His knuckles are rough, his fingers warm, and his grip is so tight it’s almost fierce.
It’s as if letting go for even a fraction of a second might allow the nightmare of the last twelve hours to reach into the room and drag me back into the dark, away from him.
His eyes haven't left my face for more than a second at a time, tracing the angry pur
