Page 173 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

Tomorrow we’ll take another step forward. Today, we’ve done enough.

FIFTY-FOUR

Life from Love

ALLY

The retchingstarts 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 examinesme 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.