The sharp pain in Lyra's side came out of nowhere.
One minute she was standing in the kitchen, trying to keep down her tea. The next, she was clutching the counter, gasping for air as a wave of cramps hit her like a punch.
"Zane!" she cried out, panic in her voice.
He was by her side in seconds. "What's wrong?"
"I—I don't know," she said, her face pale. "Something's wrong. It hurts."
Without hesitation, he scooped her into his arms, rushing her down to the car. Traffic blurred around them as Zane blew through red lights, his jaw clenched, eyes wild.
"Stay with me," he kept saying. "Don't close your eyes, Lyra. Please."
At the hospital, nurses swarmed around her. Zane had to let go — had to wait in that sterile hallway while machines beeped and the clock ticked far too slowly.
When the doctor finally emerged, Zane was on his feet.
"She's stable," the doctor said. "It was a stress-induced episode. The baby's heartbeat is still strong, but she needs rest. No more emotional strain."
Zane let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Inside the room, Lyra looked so small in the hospital bed. Fragile. Breakable.
He sat beside her and took her hand.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've protected you. I will now. From everything — even me."