Page 65 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

FIFTY-FOUR

Life from Love

ALLY

The retching starts before I’m fully awake, my body rejecting nothing with violent efficiency. Stomach acid burns my throat as I barely make it to the bathroom, knees hitting cold tile just as my body convulses again.

Gabe appears in the doorway, bare chest rising and falling with controlled breathing that doesn’t hide his frustration. This is the fourth morning this week, the tenth time in two weeks, and the careful patience in his expression is cracking.

“That’s it.” His voice carries command authority that makes my spine straighten automatically. “You’re seeing a doctor. Today.”

“It’s just stress?—”

“Bullshit.” He crouches beside me as I slump against the bathroom wall, pressing a cool washcloth to my forehead. The terry cloth smells like fabric softener and safety. “You’ve lost fifteen pounds, Ally. Your clothes hang off you like drapes. This isn’t normal.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.” His voice drops to the tone that once made me melt with submission, now edged with worry instead of desire. “I’m calling Doc Summers. You’re going. End of discussion.”

The command triggers responses that run deep. My body wants to obey even as my mind rebels. “Gabe?—”

“No arguments. No excuses. No dismissing this as stress or grief or anything else.” He helps me to my feet, gentle despite the steel in his voice. “I won’t watch you waste away because you’re too stubborn to admit something’s wrong.”

The crack in his voice cuts through my defensive instincts. He’s already lost Hank. The thought of losing me must be eating him alive.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, I’ll go.”

Skye examines me with professional thoroughness, leaving no symptom unexplored. Blood drawn, vitals checked, questions asked with enough persistence that I reveal more than I intend to share.

The examination room smells of antiseptic and latex gloves. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in harsh relief that makes my skin look pale as old paper.

Gabe sits in the corner chair, radiating tension. His hands grip the armrests, knuckles white with pressure. The chair creaks under his weight every time he shifts, leather squeaking against tactical pants that still smell faintly of gun oil despite civilian clothes.

“Well,” Skye says finally, consulting lab results with an expression I can’t read. Her pen taps against the clipboard in rapid staccato. “This is unexpected.”

My stomach drops. The taste of copper floods my mouth. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good, I think.” She turns to face us both. “Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”

The words strike like lightning, coming out of nowhere, and illuminating everything while simultaneously short-circuiting my thoughts.

Pregnant.

The impossibility crashes over me in waves—relief, terror, joy, confusion all tangled together.

“That’s impossible,” I say automatically. “I have an IUD.”

“No contraception is one hundred percent foolproof. IUDs are highly effective—ninety-nine percent—but that still leaves room for the occasional surprise.” She sets down my chart with a soft thud. “The question now is what we do about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pregnancy with an IUD in place carries risks. Increased chance of miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, and infection. The safest course is removal, but that procedure carries risks to the fetus.”

The room spins around me. The antiseptic smell intensifies, making my already sensitive stomach clench. Pregnant. With an IUD that could kill the baby. Choices that could end everything before it begins.

“What kind of risks?” Gabe’s voice cuts through my mental chaos, focused on practicalities while I’m drowning in emotion.

“The procedure itself can trigger miscarriage in roughly fifteen percent of cases. Leaving it in place increases that risk to thirty percent, plus complications that could endanger Ally’s life.

” Skye’s explanation comes with clinical detachment that doesn’t hide her obvious concern. “It’s not an easy decision.”

I look at Gabe, seeing something flickering behind his eyes. Shock, certainly. But something else too—something that looks almost like relief mixed with profound sadness.

“I want to keep it,” I say before rational thought can interfere. “The baby. I want to try.”

“Even with the risks?”

“Especially with the risks.” The certainty surprises me, coming from somewhere deeper than logic or careful planning. “This baby… It’s a miracle. After everything we’ve lost, everything that’s been taken from us—this is life choosing to happen anyway.”

Skye nods slowly, understanding passing between us that goes beyond the scope of a medical consultation. “Then we schedule the removal for tomorrow. Sooner is better if we’re going to attempt it.”

Tomorrow. One day to prepare for a procedure that could end everything or give us everything. One day to hold onto hope while preparing for loss.

“What are the chances?” Gabe asks quietly.

“If the removal goes smoothly and there’s no immediate trauma, roughly eighty-five percent chance the pregnancy continues normally.” Skye’s honesty is brutal but necessary. “Those are good odds, but not guarantees.”

“Nothing’s guaranteed,” I say, hand moving automatically to my still-flat stomach. “But some things are worth the risk.”

The procedure takes thirty minutes. I lie on the exam table while Skye works.

The gel is cold against my skin, making me shiver despite the warm room. The ultrasound wand presses against my abdomen as Skye searches for the perfect angle.

Gabe holds my hand throughout. His palm is rough with calluses, warm and solid against my suddenly cold fingers.

“There,” Skye announces finally, holding up the removed IUD like a trophy. The copper gleams under examination lights. “Clean removal, no trauma.”

Safe. The baby is safe.

This miraculous accident that might not be an accident at all is going to have a chance to grow, to become real, to join our broken family, and maybe help heal what trauma shattered.

“How long before we know for sure?” Gabe asks.

“Two weeks for confirmation that the pregnancy is progressing normally. Six weeks for viability assessment. Twelve weeks before we can breathe easily.” Skye strips off her gloves with satisfaction. “But all the signs are positive. This little one seems determined to stick around.”

Determined. Like Hank.

Eight weeks later, we’re back in Skye’s office for the appointment that will determine the sex of our baby. The ultrasound image shows a fully formed tiny human, fingers and toes visible, heart beating with a rhythm that fills the room like the most beautiful music ever composed.

The sound echoes off sterile walls, steady and strong and absolutely perfect.

“Do you want to know?” Skye asks, positioning the ultrasound wand for optimal viewing.

I look at Gabe, seeing anticipation mixed with something else I still can’t identify. He’s been different since the pregnancy was confirmed—brighter somehow, like a shadow lifted from his shoulders. But also quieter, more thoughtful, carrying some knowledge he hasn’t shared.

“I want to know,” he says. I smile at him and nod.

“Then I’m happy to tell you,” Skye announces with a smile that transforms her face, “you’re having a son.”

A son. A little boy who will carry forward whatever legacy we choose to give him, who will grow up knowing he was wanted and loved even before he existed.

Gabe’s smile—the first real smile I’ve seen since Hank died—transforms his entire face. Light returns to eyes that have been shadowed with grief, hope replacing despair with such sudden intensity it takes my breath away.

“A son,” he repeats softly, voice holding wonder alongside satisfaction.

“Ally?” Skye turns to me. “How are you feeling about this news?”

“Perfect.” The word comes out choked with emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. “He’s perfect.”

“There’s something else,” I say as Skye cleans gel from my stomach with warm towels. “Is there a way to determine paternity? Without risking the pregnancy?”

“Noninvasive prenatal paternity testing after birth.” Skye’s explanation comes without judgment, recognition that complicated relationships sometimes require complicated answers. “Results take about a week.”

We drive home in silence, hands linked across the center console, minds processing news that changes everything while changing nothing. Pregnant. Having a son. Building a family from the ashes of loss.

Late-afternoon sunlight slants through windows, warming my skin despite the air conditioning.

The sunset paints our deck in shades of gold and orange as we settle onto the deck that’s become our evening refuge.

Ocean waves crash against cliffs below with a rhythm that speaks to continuity despite constant change.

Salt air carries the scent of kelp and brine, mixing with the jasmine blooming in our neighbor’s yard.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be a family.” My hand rests on the small bump that’s just beginning to show. “Hank would have been so excited about having a baby.”

“He would have been a great father,” Gabe agrees, voice carrying certainty alongside sadness.

“We don’t even know if it’s his baby or yours. But maybe that’s beautiful—not knowing, not needing to know. Just loving him because he exists.”

Gabe goes very still beside me. His hand, which had been tracing lazy patterns on my arm, stops moving entirely. When I look at him, his face has gone carefully blank—the expression he wears when he’s processing something too big for immediate reaction.

“Gabe? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” His voice sounds strained, like he’s forcing words past some obstruction in his throat. “Everything’s… It’s good. This is good.”

“You’re being weird.” I shift to face him, studying features that have gone suspiciously neutral. “You’ve been weird since we found out about the pregnancy. Different. Like you know something I don’t.”

“I don’t?—”