CHAPTER ONE
Abby
A light breeze ghosts over my legs as someone rolls the covers back and lifts my nightdress. Pressure bears down on my lower body, and a whimper escapes my mouth. I try to blink, but my eyes refuse to cooperate, happy to live in the hazy space I now call home.
“She’ll be fine,” an unfamiliar male voice says, as I attempt to sit up in the bed. But my limbs are like my eyes. They won’t function the way they’re supposed to, and I’m screaming, but no one can hear me because the screams remain locked up inside me. “Give her plenty of fluids, ensure she eats a varied diet and takes her vitamins and medication. I’ll be back to check on her next week.”
The sounds of retreating footsteps spur me into action. Forcing through the dark, hazy fog in my head, I extend my arm out from under the covers. “Wait!” My voice is raspy from lack of use and barely louder than a whisper. “Help me! Help my baby!”
The footsteps falter, and a hushed conversation pursues, but I can’t hear the words, can’t detect the voices, and my stupid fucking body won’t move. Silent tears leak out of my eyes. “Help!” I croak again, but it’s futile.
Images flash through my mind, and the worst pain imaginable slices through me, like a finely sharpened sword gliding easily through skin and sinew and muscle and bone.
“Shush, now, Miss Manning.” A cool hand sweeps across my cheek before lowering to my arm.
“No!” I cry out as he flicks my skin with his fingers, readying me for the shot. “Please, stop!” The sharp prick stings, and cold liquid instantly seeps through my veins, numbing everything.
“It’ll be okay now, Abigail.” His fingers brush against my cheek again. “Sleep, pretty lady.”
My eyelids grow heavy again, and my body feels like a dead weight on top of the bed. I fight the darkness, like I do every time, but I always succumb, and this time is no different.
Time loses all meaning for me, and I don’t know how much passes as days and nights blend and I exist in some alternate cloudy realm. Lucid moments are rare. Until one day, I wake, and my limbs feel lighter, the fuzzy darkness in my head has almost fully disappeared, and I can move.
My movements are sluggish as I haul myself upright in the bed, slowly blinking. Blinding light dazzles me, and I shutter my eyes again, gradually opening them, a bit at a time, until I’m accustomed to the bright space.
I glance around the strange, well-lit room. It’s sparsely decorated and furnished. On my left is a wooden desk and chair. On my right, a small closet and a dresser. A lamp sits atop the table by my bed. Drab gray walls lacking artwork add to the overall depressive feel of the room.
I look over my shoulder, locating the only window in the room. It’s a small square with steel bars running vertically along the entire width. Slivers of dull daylight slip through the gaps, confirming it’s early evening.
Gingerly, I slide my legs out the side of the bed and stand, clutching onto the table when my legs buckle, threatening to go out from under me. Bracing myself, I take one careful step at a time, walking toward the side door that I’m hoping leads to a toilet because I badly need to pee.
I stumble into the small bathroom, sinking gratefully onto the toilet. Stinging pain accompanies my urine, and I wince, rubbing a hand across my stomach as I relieve myself. When I’m done, I walk on shaky legs to the sink, inspecting my reflection in the mirror.
I could use some color in my cheeks, but apart from that, I look fine. I don’t look like a kidnapped girl taken who the fuck knows where. I don’t look like a girl whose entire world came crashing down around her that fateful night.
But appearances are usually deceiving. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
What a pity I didn’t remember that the second Camden Marshall entered my life.
I may have spent most of my time here in a numbed-out state of ignorant bliss, but flashes of memories were enough to remind me he’s the reason I’m here. Wherever the hell here is, because I’ve no clue if I’m still even in the US.
All I remember is waking up on an airplane, with Louis’s smug grin in my face as he gleefully stabbed me in the arm with a motherfucking monster of a needle, and I passed out again.
The next recollection I have is waking up in a cold sweat, in an unfamiliar bed, with my screams bouncing off the walls.
And after that, it’s one giant blur.
I turn the shower on, strip out of my nightdress, and step under the warm water.
I notice my enlarged breasts for the first time as I’m soaping my body, staring at them in puzzled amazement. I know boobs usually get bigger during pregnancy, but I wasn’t expecting them to grow that fast or grow so big. I cup my hands around them, and they feel heavy and sore to the touch. I guess I will get used to a lot of changes in my body as my pregnancy progresses.
I flatten my palm on my flat stomach, wondering when I’ll start showing.
I didn’t ask for this, and I hate how my baby was conceived on a lie, but I’m not unhappy about it. My lips curl into a smile as I rub my hand back and forth across my tummy. The thought this tiny little being is growing inside me blows my mind, and I cling to my vow to do everything to protect him or her.
A frown replaces my smile as anxiety creeps up my throat. I don’t know how long I’ve been here or what they have done to me, and a sliver of fear raises its head. If he’s done anything to my baby, I will murder him with my bare hands.
I think about it logically, attempting to bring my crazy heart rate back down.
Father kidnapped me to keep me away from Kaiden and Atticus, because if I give birth and I don’t marry my baby daddy, then my shares in Manning Motors automatically transfer back to him. Which is what he’s always wanted.
So, my baby is safe.
For now.
Thinking of our child raises everything else to the surface, and I tilt my head up, closing my eyes and letting the water flow down my face as my mind wanders back to that night.
I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.
That I didn’t figure out Camden Marshall was actually Kaiden Anderson. My brother’s best friend when we were kids. Son of my mom’s best friend. Someone I enjoyed playing with. Until my mother’s affair with his father ended her friendship with Emma Anderson and ultimately ended up costing both women their lives.
All the revelations from that night weigh heavy on my mind, and I sag against the wall, exhausted and tired—both mentally and physically drained. I finish washing my hair and my body, and I stagger out of the stall, tucking a towel around myself and switching off the water.
A shriek escapes my mouth when I return to the bedroom to discover my father standing by my bed with a strange man wearing white scrubs. All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
“You shouldn’t be up.” My father casts a quick glance over me. “Get back in bed.”
I flip him the bird. “Fuck. You.”
He moves like lightning, and my head jerks to the side as he slaps me across the face. “I thought I’d beaten that insubordination out of you, but you share the same stubborn streak as your mother.” He grips my chin painfully, and water drips down my back from my wet hair. “And the same lousy taste in men,” he adds, shoving me, none too gently, at the strange man.