Wave after wave of pain rolled through Kiera, starting from her back and clenching around her belly like a cruel vise. Over and over, the crushing gravity of agony pressed her into the bed. She couldn’t change positions since Beau had zip-tied her arms to the gurney rails. She tried to count time by the contractions but lost track in the endless swirl of misery.
Whatever drug fog her brain had been swimming in had long left her system, leaving her with nothing but stark reality.
Reality sucked biscuits.
After she’d stabbed metal into Beau’s hand, making blood spurt and messing up his fancy shirt, he had slapped her and pushed her back on the bed. Then he left.
The room was silent except for her pitiful whimpers.
About ten contractions later, he returned, sporting a clean shirt and a bandage on his hand. He eased the door closed until the lock clicked. His actions were too gentle. Too deliberate, even for Beau.
When he turned, he held up two syringes full of yellow liquid. Before she could question what the substance was, another contraction hit. Up, up the pain climbed, stretching the suffering higher and higher. Even breathing hurt. Then the pain plunged down to end in too-short relief. She couldn’t stop sweating. Every muscle in her body endlessly tightened.
At least Beau hadn’t attempted to check her for dilation. He would have lost his entire arm.
“Done with the little twinge, sweetheart?”
She grunted as she tried to suck air back into her lungs. Tugging on her arms, she gasped as the plastic ties cut into her wrists.
“I have a treat for you.” He flashed a brief smile as he paced in front of the bed. “Well, for both of us, actually.”
“I don’t understand.”
“These.” He raised the syringes. “Are courtesy of my father, Senator Lequire. Turns out, he has some interesting connections.”
She stared at the liquid. “What?”
“He’ll do anything to keep his re-election campaign on track. Even cave to his son’s leverage. Use his security clearance to access top-secret military research facilities.”
He reached out as if he wanted to pat her shoulder but stepped back. “You sure you wouldn’t like to know what’s in here?”
“Nope.” Not interested in playing games.
Once again, the pressure in her pelvis climbed. Oh, God. The contractions were so close together. Was that normal?
She squeezed her eyes shut hard until she saw stars. Her pubic bone felt like it was breaking in two and she couldn’t keep a guttural scream from bursting from her lips.
No one was coming to help her. This was so not how she planned to go through labor. Alone, imprisoned, suffering.
After she recovered a minute later, he said, “All done? Because I want you to pay attention. Your baby’s future is at stake.”
“Okay,” she whispered. Anything. She’d do whatever it took, as long as her baby would be all right.
“Do you know what these are?”
“Again, no,” she gasped.
He stepped forward and glided one capped syringe tip over her tied hand. “Sweetheart, what I have here is everything. It’s power, money, and control.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s how I’m going to make my father proud, once and for all. I’m going to become what he’s always wanted me to be.”
Her brain spun, frantic, watching the syringe. If he poked her with the needle she would … what? Scream?
Wouldn’t matter.
Run? Couldn’t. She tugged again.
By God, she’d make him work for any torture he wanted to dish out. She would die first before he touched this child.
Had he gone nuts? “I don’t understand—aaghh—”
Rocking her hips from side to side, she tried to find a position to relieve the relentless grip of the contraction. The stupid breathing exercises she had read about? Yeah, screw cleansing breaths. When one contraction stopped, the awful squeezing started up again, cranking down into tighter, harder pressure.
Was Little Bit even moving? Kiera couldn’t stop writhing long enough to check. A sob lodged in her throat.
She crossed her legs and prayed that nothing would emerge from between them.
The last contraction ended on a weeping gasp.
The ending to her pain would bring a different suffering.
“Better?” Nothing in his question indicated he cared about her answer.
“Sure. Whatever.” Her voice came out cracked, static-y, like a poorly tuned radio station.
“So, these little goodies”—he waved a syringe in front of her—“will be our salvation. We will be powerful together.”
Pressing her head into the bed, as far away as possible, she said, “What is it?”
“Two doses of the Morpheus Virus.”
She stared at him. “No.”
“Yes! I’m going to take a dose, and if you don’t cooperate, then you will take a dose before the baby is born.”
“That’s a horrible idea,” she stammered. “What about—?”
His reptilian blink triggered the taste of acid on her tongue. “We’ll get to find out what mainlined Morpheus Virus does to a live fetus. For research, of course.”
“No.”
“Well.” He pressed his bandaged hand over his heart. “You’ll have to help, then. Don’t you want me to have power and the ability to command respect?”
“The virus doesn’t earn you respect,” she panted.
“Sure it does, especially when it comes to my daddy. He’ll definitely respect me after I take the virus. Won’t have a choice. I have the keys to his political kingdom, and he’ll do anything to keep me quiet. Besides, if the virus increases men’s size and stamina, just think of how much more pleasure I can give a lucky woman.” He adjusted his slacks.
The next wave of nausea had nothing to do with labor.
Then another contraction climbed up and up until it finally crashed back down, leaving her panting on the bed.
“Once the virus makes me more powerful, you’ll come around.” His glare sent terror skittering up her spine. “If you continue to refuse, I’ll find other ways to convince you. The baby. Your family. They’re all at risk. I can kill any of them”—he snapped his fingers—“like that.”
“Why would you want me to have the virus? Won’t it make me so strong that I could escape you?”
“You’ll do whatever I want if I have your baby. And for the chance at a cure, I’m betting you’ll do anything I say.”
“You have a cure?”
“My father does.”
“Really?”
“No. Not really. But he has access to resources who can create a cure for his son. If he can get hold of a cure for me, then we’d have one for you. For junior, too.”
For a split second, she considered it: giving herself to Beau as a path to save her child.
He rolled up his sleeve, Velcro’d a tourniquet above the elbow, and then lifted the syringe in a macabre toast. “Here’s to Fallen Comrades’ success, making my father proud, and our future together. Forever.”
He jammed the needle into a vein in his arm, depressed the plunger, and released the tourniquet. “Oh, yes.” His face flushed as his eyes rolled back in his head. “What a rush.”
Then he froze.
Dropping to the floor, he thrashed, panting, as his ecstasy metamorphosed to pain.
She pulled on the zip ties, desperate to get out of this room.
Another contraction pummeled her, and they both curled into twin balls of misery.
Once pain no longer blurred her vision, she watched as Beau, off-balance and sweating, slowly crawled back toward her bed, inch by terrible inch. He clawed at his head like he wanted to rip it off. His animal snarls made hairs rise on the back of her neck. The man who had to always be in control had lost all restraint.
In one hand, he carried the second uncapped syringe.
Beau’s bloodshot eyes appeared over the side of the bed a few inches away from her. She pushed back.
No place to go.
Then a hard contraction seized her body hard enough for sound to fade away.
Her legs jackknifed around her tight abdomen.
Tears slipped out as she tried to clamp down on a scream and failed.
Beau grabbed her arm.