CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
The guard’s eyes flicker down to my stomach, and something softens in his expression. For the first time since I was dragged here, someone looks at me with something other than disgust or judgment.
“Hold on,” he whispers, voice low so it doesn’t echo. “Just… hold on.”
Before I can respond, he turns and disappears into the darkness.
Minutes stretch painfully. My throat feels like sandpaper, each swallow scraping like knives. My hands tremble from weakness and cold.
I curl protectively around my belly, whispering small apologies to the tiny life inside me.
Then footsteps return.
The guard reappears, holding a bottle of water—full, cold, precious. He pushes it into my hands through the bars.
“This should keep you okay until tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Drink slowly.”
