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AURELIE

P ain wakes me like a slap—cramping low in my abdomen, a shuddering throb that pulls a groan from my lips. It's not the dull ache I've grown accustomed to over these past months, but something sharper, more insistent. Something with purpose.

"No," I whisper to the empty room, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar. "Please, not yet."

I try to sit up, but my body protests, weak and trembling. My limbs feel disconnected, floating away from me like driftwood on a current. A film of sweat coats my skin, and heat radiates from within despite the cool air. My head pounds in rhythm with my racing heart.

The room is dim, too quiet. No guards. No chains. No harsh voice commanding me to silence.

Panic sets in as I scan my surroundings. This isn't a cell. It's not the street where I've been sleeping these past weeks, curled around my swollen belly beneath shop awnings. The bed is warm beneath me, and the sheets are clean—actual sheets, not filthy rags or damp cobblestones.

"Where am I?" My words dissolve into the silence.

I squint through the gloom. A small window lets in just enough moonlight to outline simple furnishings: a wooden chair, a table, the bed I'm lying in. My hands clutch at the blanket covering me, fingers tracing the unfamiliar softness.

Freedom or another cage? My body doesn't care either way. It clenches again—another contraction that steals my breath and bends me forward. When it passes, I notice a pitcher on the bedside table.

Water. My cracked lips part at the sight. How long has it been since I had clean water? Days? The thought alone makes my throat constrict with need.

I reach for it, my joints aching with the effort, and pour shakily into a waiting cup. The water splashes over my trembling hands, cool and precious. I bring the cup to my mouth and drink greedily, dribbling some down my chin in my haste. It tastes sweeter than any amerinth I've ever stolen sips of, more satisfying than anything I can remember.

"Slow," I caution myself between gulps. "You'll be sick."

But my body refuses wisdom. I drink until the cup is empty, then pour again with steadier hands. The water hits my empty stomach like a stone dropping into a well. For a moment, I fear it will come back up, but the nausea passes, leaving behind blessed relief.

My body clenches again—another contraction, stronger than the last. I cry out, unable to hold back the sound as pain radiates through me. The cup falls from my hand, rolling across the floor.

"No. Not now. Not alone."

Fear grips me tighter than the pain. I've been preparing for this moment for months, whispering to my unborn child each night, promising protection I wasn't sure I could provide. Now the moment has arrived, and I am utterly unprepared.

"I can't do this," I whisper, as if my child might somehow hear and decide to wait. "I don't know how."

My hand rests protectively on my belly, feeling the tightness beneath my skin. The movement inside has changed—no longer the playful nudges and rolls, but something more determined. My child is coming, ready or not.

I push damp hair from my face, feeling the heat of fever on my skin. My thoughts swim, disconnected and hazy. How did I get here? Who brought me to this place? The last I remember is stumbling through the streets, the pain in my back spreading slowly around to my front, my vision blurring as I searched for somewhere, anywhere to hide.

Another contraction grips me, this one stealing even my ability to breathe. I curl forward, clutching at my abdomen, riding the wave until it recedes enough for me to gasp for air.

The tears come then, hot and unwelcome. I've survived Kaelith's cruelty. I've survived weeks on the streets of a city that cares nothing for a pregnant runaway. But this—bringing my child into the world alone, weak and feverish—this might be the thing that breaks me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to my unborn child. "I tried to give you better than this."

My child can't be born here. I don't even know where "here" is.

I drag my feet over the edge of the bed, toes barely grazing the cool floorboards. My entire body protests, muscles trembling as I push myself to stand. My clothes cling to my sweat-soaked skin as I take one tentative step, then another.

"Just... need to... find out," I whisper, steadying myself against the wall.

A sliver of light catches my attention—a door, slightly ajar. The possibility of answers, or escape, pulls me forward. Each step is a negotiation between determination and pain. I keep one hand pressed against my belly, the other trailing along the wall for support.

The floorboard creaks beneath my weight just as I reach the door. My fingers brush the wooden frame, and suddenly the door swings open.

I stumble back, a gasp catching in my throat.

A demon fills the doorway, massive and imposing. Silver eyes flash in the dim light, catching mine like twin moons. My heart stutters, every instinct screaming danger.

He doesn't move. Doesn't lunge or leer or grab. He simply stands there, his expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable.

"You're awake," he says, his voice a low rumble that reminds me of distant thunder.

I take another step back, my hand pressing protective circles against my belly. Fourteen years under Kaelith's ownership taught me what demons want. What they take.

"Who are you?" My voice sounds pathetically thin.

The demon remains in the doorway, making no move to approach. His jet-black hair falls messily around his face, partially obscuring a scar that cuts through his right eyebrow. Despite his intimidating size, he holds himself with a strange restraint, like someone accustomed to being perceived as a threat.

"My name's Rolfo," he answers, his words clipped but not unkind. "I found you collapsed near the markets. So… I brought you here—to my home."

A contraction rips through me before I can respond, more vicious than the last. I gasp, my knees buckling beneath me as white-hot pain radiates from my core. My vision blurs, the room tilting sideways as I sink toward the floor.

Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. The demon—Rolfo—moves with surprising speed, his grip firm but careful as he lifts me.

"Shit," he mutters, the word barely audible as he carries me back to the bed. "You shouldn't be up. You're already burning with fever."

I struggle weakly against his hold, instinct overriding reason. "Don't touch me."

"Stay still," he says, ignoring my protest as he lowers me onto the mattress. "Help is on the way."

His silver eyes scan my face, and I'm startled by the concern I see there. Not calculation or cruelty—genuine worry.

"Why?" I manage between ragged breaths. "Why help me?"

Rolfo steps back once I'm settled, moving to pour more water. The distance he puts between us feels deliberate, as if he understands my fear.

"Drink this," he offers, extending the cup without coming closer. "As for why—" His jaw tightens, gaze flicking to my swollen belly. "Let's just say I have no interest in seeing a woman treated like you have been."

I hesitate before taking the cup, searching his face for deceit. Demons lie. Demons hurt. That's all I've known. But the raw honesty in his expression makes me reach for the water.

"My baby's coming," I whisper, wincing as another contraction builds. "I can't—I don't have anywhere to go."

Rolfo crosses his arms, his broad shoulders blocking most of the doorway. Despite his intimidating presence, his voice softens.

"You do now." He shifts his weight, looking almost uncomfortable with his own kindness. "No one's going to hurt you here. Or the little one."

The contraction peaks, and I cry out, clutching the sheets. When I can breathe again, I find him watching me, assessing me. But it's still filled with emotions I can't process.

Footsteps sound behind Rolfo, light and purposeful. The demon shifts aside, revealing a human woman in the doorway. She's slender but moves with quiet confidence, her honey-blonde braid swinging against her shoulder as she approaches. Sharp, assessing eyes take in my condition, but there's no judgment in them—only calm determination.

"You found her just in time," she says to Rolfo, her voice steady as she carries a small basket to the bedside.

She kneels beside me, reaching out slowly like I'm a frightened animal she doesn't want to startle. Her fingers wrap gently around my wrist, counting my pulse. Her other hand presses against my forehead, cool against my burning skin.

"I'm Ada," she says simply, meeting my gaze. "I'm a friend of Rolfo's, here to help. I've been through this before. You're safe here. We're going to help you."

Her voice is a balm, washing over me in waves of unexpected comfort. I cling to it like a lifeline, this stranger's certainty anchoring me when everything else feels unmoored. She smells of fresh herbs and something earthy—garden soil, perhaps. Her hands are worker's hands, with small calluses and neatly trimmed nails.

"You can't know that," I whisper, another contraction building. "You don't know who's looking for me."

Ada's expression doesn't waver. "I know enough." She pulls back the blanket to examine me properly, her movements efficient but gentle. "How far apart are the pains coming?"

I struggle to think through the fog of fear and fever. "I don't know. Close. Closer than before."

She nods, reaching for a cloth to dab my forehead. "Your body knows what to do, even if your mind is frightened. I'll help you through it." She glances over her shoulder. "Rolfo, bring more clean water and fresh linens."

I follow her gaze to where the demon lingers in the doorway, his massive frame making the room seem smaller. Despite his intimidating appearance, there's something almost vulnerable in his posture—shoulders slightly hunched, hands opening and closing at his sides. He nods at Ada's instruction, clearly uneasy but determined to help.

"Is he—" I start to ask, but another contraction tears through me, stealing my words and replacing them with a low, animal sound.

Ada holds my hand through it, her grip firm. "Breathe through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it."

When the pain recedes, I notice Rolfo has disappeared to fetch what Ada requested. "Why is a demon helping me?" I manage between pants.

Ada's eyes soften slightly, her mouth curving in what might be a smile. "Rolfo has his reasons. He's not like the others you've known."

"I've never known a demon who didn't want something." The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

"I understand that well enough." Ada begins unpacking her basket—clean cloths, small bottles of various liquids, a knife so sharp it gleams in the dim light. "Do you have a name?"

Rolfo returns, arms full of linens and a steaming basin of water. He sets everything down within Ada's reach, his movements careful, as if afraid his strength might break something. Our eyes meet briefly as he straightens and I'm struck by the raw sincerity in his gaze.

"Aurelie," I answer, but my eyes are on him. "My name is Aurelie."

"If you need anything else..." he says to Ada, his deep voice trailing off uncertainly.

"We'll manage," Ada assures him. "But stay close."

He nods, retreating to the doorway but not leaving completely. Something about his vigilance makes me feel unexpectedly secure, like he's standing guard rather than blocking my escape.

"Ada," I gasp as another wave of pain builds, "I can't do this. I'm not strong enough."

Her warm hands cup my face, forcing me to focus on her. "You already are doing it. You escaped. You survived. This child has survived because of you." Her eyes, brown and steadfast, hold mine. "And now you're not alone."

Something inside me shifts at her words. Not the baby—something deeper, in a part of me I thought had withered and died under Kaelith's ownership. I'm not sure what this feeling is, only that it feels real—more real than anything has in a very long time.

"I'm scared," I admit, the words barely audible.

Ada nods, not dismissing my fear but acknowledging it. "Fear kept you alive. Now let hope carry you the rest of the way."