Tangled Hearts.

~Chapter 49~

~Raelyn~

~May 16th~

I didn't plan on being in here this long.

The closet wasn't exactly a *sanctuary*, but today, it felt like one. Tucked in the back of our bedroom — all clean lines and soft lighting — the massive walk-in was usually a chaotic mix of Colby's boots, my sweaters, and whatever laundry we were too lazy to fold. But right now, it was quiet. Still. My little bubble away from everything.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, one hand on my belly, the other gripping the hem of my black tank top. I'd thrown on some old sweatpants, thinking they'd be comfortable. They were — but everything else felt... tight. Constricting. Especially my head.

The baby wasn't showing that much yet. Just a soft curve, barely visible unless I turned to the side. But it was enough.

Enough to remind me.

Enough to *haunt* me.

I pressed my fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, not even sure why. Maybe to ground myself. Maybe to prove I was still *here*. Not in that cold, rotting basement. Not in that room. Not surrounded by rusted chains and stained concrete and screams I didn't even realize were mine.

But here.

At home.

In a damn closet.

A shaky breath escaped me as I stared at my reflection. I didn't even recognize her — the girl in the mirror. Her cheek was healing, yeah, and the cut looked more like a beauty mark now than a battle scar. That one didn't bother me. Not as much.

But the shoulder...

The angry, pink wound sliced across the curve of my left shoulder was harder to ignore. It had needed stitches. Colby did them himself — trembling hands, blood all over his shirt, jaw clenched so hard I thought he'd break a molar. The skin had finally knitted together, but the scar stayed. Stubborn. Loud. Unapologetic.

And then there were the marks on my hands.

Thin, slashing cuts running along my knuckles, the inside of my palms, and around my fingers. Tiny reminders of the glass — the mirror — the floor. I'd tried to crawl. To drag myself away with skin slicked in blood, fingers slipping in red. I'd felt the shards dig in deeper with every inch. Heard them crunch beneath my knees.

That part? I hadn't told anyone.

Not even Colby.

I closed my eyes and felt it again — the yank of my hair, the snap of my neck to the side, the *thud* of my body slamming against the wall like a rag doll. The burn in my scalp from the patches of hair he ripped out. It was finally growing back, but I could still feel the tenderness when I brushed it.

I leaned forward, bracing my hands on my thighs, trying to breathe through the panic crawling up my spine.

You're okay.
You're safe.
The baby's safe.
You're safe.
*You're home.*

But that voice — that voice I'd tried so hard to bury — it slithered out of the shadows like poison.

> "I see you and my son have bred a parasite."

I gasped and dropped to the floor like my knees gave out. Maybe they did. My hands were shaking. My chest tightened. The closet felt too small now. Too warm. Too *loud.*

The memory gripped me like claws.

Layne's hand in my hair.
Dallas whispering filth in my ear.
The cold metal of the blade slicing across my shoulder — slow, deliberate.
My scream.
The baby.
The baby.
Oh my god, the baby.