Page 135 of Devilish Ink

“Liam,” Ry whispered, “what if—the baby—”

I pushed the pedal down harder and lied, “Everything’s going to be alright.”

RY

The lights of the ER were harsh against my stinging eyes as Liam barged in through the entrance with me cradled in his arms.

“Please,” he yelled, “my wife was attacked. She needs help!”

Even as the nurses shouted, swinging doors crashed open, the rattle of a gurney’s wheels across the pale linoleum floors, all I could think for a moment was,

He called me his wife.

They pulled me out of his arms and onto a gurney.

I reached for him even as they started wheeling me away, panic choking me at the loss of him. “Liam.”

“Ry.”

He tried to follow me past the swinging doors but he was stopped. I caught a glimpse of his worried face twice more before the doors stopped swinging.

My stomach hollowed out at the thought that this would be the last time I ever saw him.

A nurse took my head in her hands and held it still.

“Don’t move till we figure out the extent of your injuries,” shesaid, as the overhead lights passed one after the other like the lines on the highway.

“I’m okay,” I tried to tell her. “It’s my baby.”

As we entered a room I heard the sound of curtains being drawn around me along metal bars. Claustrophobia made my chest even tighter.

There were hands all over me and panic threatened to consume me. I struggled not to fight against the strangers’ hands.

Thick gauze was wiped across my cuts, stinging my skin. I moaned as hands forced my arm away from where I was holding it over my belly, and they forced a blood pressure cuff up to my bicep.

“Please,” I begged, “my baby. Just see if my baby is alright.”

They placed ECG dots on my chest formyheart rate and slipped a clip on my finger formyvitals. I wanted to tear them all off of me to finally get their attention: not me. Mybaby.

My baby was all that mattered.

Hearing the rapid, erratic beat of my heart only made me panic more. Yes, I was alive—barely. But what about my little bean?

Another face came to peer over me, a serious-faced doctor in a white coat. He peeled up my eyelid and shined a light that stabbed straight into my brain. More tears streamed down my already damp cheeks.

“Urgent CTG,” the doctor said. “Intravenous access.”

A moment later a nurse pricked the vein in the crook of my elbow for a catheter, but I didn’t even feel it. I was already in too much pain.

There was too much chaos around me, too much fear making my blood thud against my ears, and far too much pain in my belly.

“My baby,” I choked out. “Is my baby okay?”

Everyone was ignoring me. There were half a dozen people working around me and not a single one answered.

“Shh, shh,” voices cooed.

A hand pressed against my forehead, but I pushed it away.

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