Page 77 of Force At Third

“Dr. Sophie Chang is an OBGYN. I’m going to have her do a quick consult, as well.”

“ ’Kay, but why?”

“You’re very early, maybe eight weeks, so your baby is near bulletproof, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

I do the math real quick, and it’s not matching.

“I don’t understand,” Gwen whispers, pulling her hand from mine and placing it over her belly.

“Conception date doesn’t determine the weeks pregnant. Weeks are based on the last period. Have you missed a period?”

“I don’t think so.”

“When was your last cycle?”

“Before Walton.”

“Have you been nauseous or tired?”

“I’m not pregnant,” Gwen says, turning her head away from me. “I can’t have babies.”

“Who told you that?” Dromida asks, and Gwen doesn’t say anything. “Have you been pregnant before?”

She doesn’t answer that, either.

“Do you mind stepping outside for a minute?” Dromida waves her hand toward the door.

“I’ll step outside, but is it necessary to ask her questions that upset her? She’s been through?—”

“Locke.” Dromida arches a brow. “You’re here on grace.”

“Dr. O’Donnell, I’m here until Gwendolyn asks me to leave.” I stand up and kiss her cheek again. “I’ll be right out there, okay?”

She doesn’t say a word.

Outside, I hear everything that’s said.

Gwendolyn York had a miscarriage when she was nineteen; she was fifteen weeks pregnant. She knew she had gotten pregnant around Halloween time her freshman year and made the decision to have an abortion, but she miscarried a week before it was scheduled while attending college. Due to the nature of her miscarriage, she’s been told she would never have kids.

The grief I feel at the loss of a child—our child—it fucking hurts. So does the fact that she didn’t trust me to help her through whatever decision she made, that Gwendolyn was told she couldn’t have kids, and is now lying in there after being beaten and shot, almost dying, knowing there’s a possibility of losing a child that she was told she’d never have …

“You’re wrong, Dromida. The test was wrong.”

“Dr. Chang will be here soon. I won’t operate on a thirty-four-year-old, possibly pregnant woman without consulting an OBGYN because, Gwen, you’re my age, and this baby gives me hope. I’m going to protect it like you would your friends.”

“Please knock me out.”

When Dromida walks out, I push up from my squatted position, unsure of when I even put myself in it.

“She’s lucky to be here.”

“The world is lucky she’s here,” I correct her.

I walk in and see tears—fucking tears—falling down her fucked-up face.

I sit beside her. “Hey, Gwen.”

“I can’t with you right now.”

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