Stepped Up [COMPLETE]

2

8 MONTHS LATER

"Here's your tea," I said to Trisha as I passed her a mug of hot tea. She gratefully took it and balanced it briefly on her bulging bump. Seven months ago, Trisha found out she had gotten pregnant from her attack, and I had given her options. Still, she had decided to keep the baby because it was hers. She had promised me that the baby's father would never find out about it because he would take it.

"Thank you," She sighed in delight as she sipped.

On the fateful night when the shadows of danger loomed over us, Trisha and I made the resolute decision to break free from the chains that tethered us to the Franks Pack. The urgency of the moment propelled us into a frantic race against time, packing our lives into the spacious confines of my SUV, its trailer hitched and ready to carry the weight of our escape.

Our first stop was Trisha's modest flat on the outskirts of town, a haven we hoped to leave unscathed. With adrenaline coursing through our veins, we gathered fragments of her life, tangible remnants of the past that would soon be left behind. The air crackled with a palpable tension as I cast a cloaking spell, a veil of unseen protection shrouding our vehicle and trailer from prying eyes.

As we embarked on our escape, the road stretched before us like an uncertain path to freedom. The town's edge marked the boundary between the life we were leaving behind and the unknown that lay ahead. A simultaneous utterance to the heavens served as our declaration of independence, a poignant farewell to the Franks Pack. In that moment, I felt the tenuous ties that once bound us to the pack lands weaken and eventually snap, like threads unraveling in the wind. The severance, though profound, seemed to inflict a deeper wound on Trisha, perhaps because her wolf's mate still lingered within the pack's confines. For me, the detachment was more clinical, the last vestiges of allegiance dissolving into the rearview mirror.

Our nomadic existence unfolded as we traversed the map, zigzagging our way through three different locations in the preceding months. The journey of constant movement reached its culmination in Vermont, a distant haven far removed from the lingering specters of our past. Despite the physical distance, however, a restless unease clung to Trisha like a persistent shadow, preventing her from finding solace and settling into the semblance of a new life.

The scars of our escape ran deep, etching into the fabric of our beings, and the weight of the unknown cast a perpetual shadow over our newfound sanctuary. Yet, with each passing day, we grappled with the aftermath of our decision, confronting the ghosts that continued to haunt our shared existence in the quietude of Vermont's landscape.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I asked her. I asked her this every morning.

"A little itchy, actually,"

"Itchy?"

"Yeah, my hands and feet,"

"What?" My heart dropped. I had been reading up on pregnancy and everything that came with it. Itchy hands and feet could mean that she was suffering from pre-eclampsia. "Let me see your feet," I said as I stood up and approached her. I pulled back the blanket covering her waist, and her feet were swollen. I could not see her ankle. "Okay, we're going to the hospital,"

"What? Why?"

"I think you have pre-eclampsia; we need to go," I said. I placed flip-flops beneath her feet and went to grab the hospital bags. I took her hand and led her to the car. I locked the front door, threw the bags in the car's boot, and drove like a maniac to the hospital.

The whirlwind of events unfolded with a relentless pace as we arrived at Labour and Delivery. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the weight of anticipation that hung heavy in our hearts. Time became a fleeting concept as medical professionals swiftly took charge of Trisha's well-being.