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“That hasn’t been cold for a couple of hours,” he insisted.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Thanks.”

The door opened and closed.

While driving from Chicago to Tampa made sense given the tense situation with our enemy, this drive had been nothing short of brutal. We stopped more than was necessary so I could puke. The trash can at my feet was thankfully unused, but that was just luck. I was sick. Markos was worried. And Iosif, who I didn’t know came to town with his cousin, was the glue that helped us.

I cracked my eyelids, squinting into the dark parking lot. I felt like a burden.

Sighing, I pushed out of the vehicle. My insides churned, but I managed to walk to the bathrooms. Although he didn’t close in, I felt Markos watch my every step. As soon as we were back, I was going to make him take me to the village. I wanted to behome. The urge to nest, to ground myself, was strong. While I loved the condo—and my piano—I couldn’t hear the sea’s song unless the glass door was cracked.

The sea seemed to thrive in the village.

As did children.

That was where our child would be born.

Passing Iosif in the entryway, I gave him a small salute before entering the lady’s room. After taking care of business, I washedmy hands but had to lean against the sink and breathe through another round of nausea.

When the automatic tap shut off, another sound became evident. Panic jumped inside me, chasing away the morning sickness. Fighting. There was definitely fighting outside. I forced myself upright, heart hammering against my ribs. I rushed out of the bathroom, nearly slipping on the tile floor. The lobby’s air conditioning hit me like a wall as I burst through the door.

The scene before me froze my blood. Iosif was locked in combat with a man.

They found us. This was the situation the men feared.

I looked around for any way to help. The pair grappled violently, their movements illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights of the rest stop. Before I could do anything, the fight shifted. The stranger had Iosif pinned against the side of the building, but as I watched, Iosif broke free with a vicious elbow to the man’s sternum.

“Iosif!” I called out, my voice thin with panic.

He glanced my way, his face contorted in a desperate snarl.

That momentary distraction cost him everything.

The attacker seized the opportunity, producing a blade that glinted under the fluorescent lights. In a single, fluid motion, he plunged it deep into Iosif's abdomen. Iosif’s eyes widened, his mouth forming a surprised ‘O’ as the knife twisted.

A scream tore from my throat, raw and primal. Iosif slumped against the wall, his hands clutching at the wound as blood spread across his shirt in a dark bloom. The attacker yanked the blade free and prepared to strike again.

“No!” I shrieked, lunging forward without thinking.

Suddenly, Markos appeared, his face a mask of cold fury. He tackled the assailant with such force that they both crashed into the vending machines. Glass shattered. The attacker scrambled to his feet, knife still in hand, but Markos was faster. Hecaught the man’s wrist in mid-swing, twisting it until something snapped. The knife clattered to the ground.

I rushed to Iosif, who had slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood. His breathing was shallow, face pale as moonlight.

“Iosif, stay with me,” I begged, pressing my hands against his wound. Blood welled between my fingers, warm and slick. My stomach lurched, but I swallowed hard against the nausea. This wasn’t about me now.

Behind us, the fight continued with brutal efficiency. Markos moved like something inhuman, each strike precise and devastating. The attacker managed to land a blow to Markos’s face, splitting his lip, but it only seemed to fuel his rage. When Markos finally drove the man to the ground, he viciously snapped the man’s neck.

Silence broke with a noiseless rush.

In the stillness, the soft chokes of Iosif fluttered like the wings of a bird.

“Help me,” I gasped, struggling to lift Iosif’s weight. “Markos, please!”

Markos was at my side in an instant, his hands bloody—not his blood—as he helped me lower Iosif to a more comfortable position. I cradled his head in my lap, my fingers trembling as they brushed through his hair.

“Get him to a hospital,” I demanded, though the rational part of me knew it was already too late. The wound was catastrophic, his lifeblood spilling out faster than my hands could contain it.

Iosif’s eyes found mine, clouded with pain but somehow still gentle. His lips moved, forming words that emerged as barely more than breath.