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I give Thad a look. “Some privacy for her exam?” He falters, glancing between me and the cell door, and it might be dark, but not dark enough to notice she’s in nothing but a pair of panties, clutching an old, scratchy wool blanket to her breasts. I shift my weight. “Do you really think you’re stopping anything here?”

He relents, trudging back down the corridor toward the staircase.

Only when he’s gone do I enter the room, setting my supplies on the floor. Among them is a large bottle of water, and I quickly uncap it. Kneeling by the cot, I cradle the back of her head, gently instructing, “Drink.”

Her eyes are red, and her hair matted, and while she takes the bottle, tipping it up to her lips, I tug the blanket away.

I’m not sure how long I crouch there, framing her belly with my hands. My thumbs sweep back and forth, as if I could soothe him through the skin, and maybe I could make this seem like something necessary—an examination—but I don’t bother.

Wordlessly, I tip forward, resting my ear against the bump.

It should be enough to calm the raging storm in my chest, but it isn’t.

Not until her fingers begin fluttering through my hair.

“Lex,” she says, her voice a thin rasp. “He’s okay, right?”

Inhaling, I lean back, grabbing my notepad from the floor. “Let’s see.”

Verity is a good patient. She has her mouth open before I even have the thermometer out, arm extended for the blood pressure cuff before I can ask. She waits as I jot it down, and then remains still as I clamp the pulse oximeter to her finger.

When I pull out the stethoscope, she lifts her chin, exposing her chest to me, and she knows the exact moments to breathe in and out. The first time she shows any emotion is when I produce a small, at-home fetal Doppler.

She scrambles to lay back, but immediately winces. “Shit!”

I wince with her, steadying her neck. “Just rest back on your hands.”

Her eyes begin welling again, but it’s not the same as last time, all miserable and full of agony. Now, she just looks ripe with anger. “How many times?” she asks, voice cracking. “How many times did he do this to you?”

I consider lying as I start the small machine, the crackle of the Doppler loud in the room. “Honestly?” I meet her gaze. “I lost count at twenty. It just stopped mattering.”

Her expression crumbles. “God, Lex…”

Shrugging, I begin the search for the heartbeat. “I’m good at handling pain. Some of the nerves back there are dead now anyway.”

A tear falls, and she lets it, looking at me like she’s feeling more than her own pain. “That’s awful. All these years living with him, he’s been…” Sniffing, she looks away. “And I just showed it to everyone that night like a petty, vindictive bitch.”

My shoulders shift, the skin on my back suddenly feeling much too tight. “I know why you did it, Verity. I held it against you for a while, but now?” The sound of the baby’s rapid heartbeat fills the room, and I glance up, catching her watery gaze. “Now, there are more important things.”

As soon as she hears his heartbeat, some of the tension in her body melts away. It makes the pulsing rhythm slow, just a smidge. It’s another reminder that taking care of this fetus means taking care of her.

“It was because of something they did, wasn’t it?” she asks. Her hair is wild and knotted, and when I flick off the device, she looks disappointed. “Like when Pace was put down here after Wicker’s fight on the ice. That was meant to hurt Wicker, wasn’t it? He punishes you, but it’s meant for them.”

“Usually,” I say, pulling out a fresh pack of gauze. “But not on that particular occasion. Turn around.”

She obeys gingerly, sweeping her hair over a shoulder. It’s not as bad as it could be. The cuts are a bit more shallow than I’m used to enduring, and there are only three of them. The urtica is a problem though, the skin around the wounds mottled and irritated, and as I dab the cuts with antiseptic, I hope it drowns out the other sting.

“What was it for,” she asks. “In the video, when you were being whipped?” There’s a thread of urgency to her voice, as if she’s trying to distract herself.

That must be why I answer truthfully. “I wasn’t making enough deposits.”

Her back stills with a held breath, and then, “He whipped you like that because you weren’tfucking meenough?”

“Yes.” I begin tearing little strips of medical tape from the roll. “He was tracking all of us, comparing, rewarding, turning it into a competition.” I press a piece of gauze over one of the cuts and adhere it with the tape. “Punishing. It’s what he does. It’s how he controls us.”

It took me too fucking long to realize that. I stare down at the wounds. Almost too late.

“That’s crazy.” She exhales, but it’s followed by a little bout of bitter laughter. “This is all so crazy, Lex.”