The damp air of the underground hideout clung to your skin, a stark reminder of how far you were from safety. You shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair, your wrists bound tightly behind you, the ropes digging into your skin. The weight of your swollen belly made sitting nearly unbearable, each sharp ache in your back a cruel reminder of how vulnerable you were. The baby moved slightly, a faint kick against your ribs, and you bit back tears. You had to stay calm—for both your sake and the baby’s.

Kenny Ackerman leaned against a table a few feet away, a knife in his hand that he idly twirled. His movements were casual, even lazy, but his sharp eyes betrayed his amusement. He watched you as if you were some kind of curiosity, like a toy he could dismantle whenever he pleased. The silence between you was oppressive, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the chair or the faint drip of water in the distance.

You couldn’t stop your mind from racing. Levi would come for you—he had to. You pictured his face when you told him about the baby, the way his normally stoic expression had softened, the way his hand had rested protectively over your stomach. That memory was what kept you from crumbling under Kenny’s cold, watchful gaze. Levi would come. He always kept his promises.