Page 52 of Rage

But Dr. Shaw and Sarah have brought me more clarity than I could’ve hoped for.

I miss you, Mama.

Unbidden, Sarah’s tearful face flashes in my mind. What if we’re having a daughter and not a boy like my illness has convinced me we are?

My nostrils flare, waiting for Zac’s answer. I’ll make this city safe, safe for my Sarah and any potential children we have after this one.

Me, a father to a daughter? My twin won’t be the only predator cleaning out the trash.

“I didn’t hunt this one with Nat like I usually do. I was minding my own business, leaving Rhys’ bar, when I heard crying.” He lets out a sigh, and it’s so un-Zachary like. He doesn’t care about other people’s tears, just Natalia’s.

I’ve told Dr. Shaw about my twin and he says it’s probably difficult for him to experience things like sympathy and compassion, that he has an illness, too, but it’s different from mine.

“I called the cops. I know, I’m a real good Samaritan, right? But she got him good. He left a bloody little trail and you know what? I keep chloroform on hand for situations like this. So, are you going to bond with me over teaching this piece of meat the error of his ways?” Zac’s voice wavers slightly and I wonder if there’s more to it.

Does he genuinely want my company, maybe?

“I’m in,” I say with finality. Sarah doesn’t have to know. She just needs to feel safer. And we’ll make it safe for her, for our children.

Chapter Two

Compromised

Sarah

So much blood. Trembling hands stained crimson lift. The pink nitrile gloves present a stark contrast to the deeper, angry red sluicing down the rubber.

I meet my own green-eyed gaze in the bathroom mirror.

This isn’t you. You’re strong. You do not break down over this. You’ve seen worse.

It all feels hollow.

Two hours. Two hours into my shift and all hell broke loose. The emergency department transferred a stable pregnant female in her early twenties. She got assigned to me since no one else was available and I’d walked into her room to do an initial assessment, not trusting the ED’s version of “stable.”

Pulling the unconscious woman’s gown up to assess her abdomen, I’d froze. Dried blood coated her thighs. She needs a bath, I’d thought to myself with a sense of detachment.

I’d nearly crumbled to the floor after removing her gown and diaper. So much blood. There’s no way the pregnancy was viable with that much—Get a grip, Sarah!

I tug the gloves off, uncaring if the rubber snaps from being stretched taut. I need it off. Get off of me!

I nearly scream, gripping the edge of the sink after tossing the brutalized gloves into the wastebasket.

Deep breaths.

Why am I like this? It’s just blood. Women bleed in labor. And this isn’t my first miscarriage.

But it’s the first I’ve dealt with since being a pregnant practitioner.

No. I shake my head, refusing to believe I’m emotionally compromised because of my own unborn. But that voice won’t shut up, screaming I’ve failed my patients with my incompetence. I’d completed the assessment with jerky, stiff movements and it wasn’t like she saw how affected I was by her condition.

I hope she killed him. I read the EMT’s report. Suspected sexual assault victim. The rape kit administered downstairs confirmed it. And not all the blood that’d coated her before the ED cleaned her was hers.

She’d injured the bastard.

Good.

Deep breaths, Sarah. I obey my own internal command, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. My hand finds its way to my rounded belly.

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