Page 10 of Unleashed (Dark Sovereign #11)

EVERLY

The beeping is soft. Steady. Hypnotic.

Like it’s counting the seconds between who I was before tonight and who I am now.

The white ceiling tiles above me are too bright, too clean.

My throat burns from crying, my skin tight with the residue of panic and dried tears.

I don’t remember getting here. Not really.

Just a blur of Anthony’s voice, blood on my thighs, and that sharp, tearing pain that made me think… made me know…

“How far along is she?” I hear Anthony ask, and even though his words make sense…they don’t.

“Nine weeks.”

I blink slowly, forcing my head to turn. It’s like my mind’s swimming, thoughts muffled, bobbing in an ocean of confusion. Distantly, I see Anthony, his mouth drawn into a grim line of concern, his eyes brimming with emotions I can't quite name.

“Nine weeks…” he murmurs, mostly to himself, one hand raking anxiously through his hair.

“She experienced what's called a subchorionic hemorrhage.” Blinking, the doctor standing near the foot of the bed, clipboard in hand, a nurse just behind him, comes into focus. He looks young but not inexperienced. Calm in that way only people who live in emergencies can be. “It’s when a blood vessel between the uterine wall and the gestational sac ruptures. It can cause significant bleeding. Women with PCOS—”

“PCOS?” Anthony frowns.

“Polycystic ovary syndrome,” the doctor states. “It's a hormonal imbalance when the ovaries produce excess hormones, causing irregular menstrual cycles, and can lead to infertility.”

I settle deeper into the pillows as the doctor explains what’s wrong with me. Another defect, another flaw working silently in the shadows of my body. It’s something I’ve never shared with anyone. Isaia knows, not because I told him, but because he snooped into every corner of my life.

“Is it related? The PCOS and sub…” Anthony pinches his eyes closed. “Whatever you call it?”

“Subchorionic hemorrhage,” the doctor clarifies. “Women with PCOS have a higher risk of subchorionic hemorrhage, which sometimes—but not often—leads to miscarriage.”

The word explodes through the room like a bomb, and my whole body goes still. Seizes. Shudders.

Miscarriage.

Every bone locks up, a breath caught somewhere between my lungs and heart as if the air itself has turned to stone.

Ten minutes ago, I was bleeding and terrified.

Ten minutes ago, I didn’t even know I was pregnant.

And now—now I’m sitting here with a doctor’s voice echoing in my ears, telling me I might’ve already lost the baby I never had a chance to want.

I press my hand against my flat stomach, tears welling up as they have been for what seems like an eternity. A hollowness fills me, swallowing me whole.

A baby.

My baby.

And I might have already lost it.

Terror claws its way up my spine, so real it’s almost physical.

It feels like grief, but it's not—not yet.

It's panic laced with hope, with horror, with this primal ache already forming in the center of me. Like my body knows what’s at stake.

And all I can do is sit here, frozen, while someone tells me whether the most unexpected, terrifying, beautiful thing to ever happen to me is already gone.

The doctor shifts slightly, softer now. “But we’re not assuming the worst, yet.”

Yet.

“We’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound to assess the gestational sac, the heartbeat, and ensure there's no further detachment or internal bleeding. It’s the most accurate way to get a clear view, especially at this stage of pregnancy.”

The nurse moves to my side with a calm, practiced ease, pressing a button on the wall. A quiet hum follows as the exam table begins to adjust, tilting slightly, and she drapes a sheet over my hips and thighs.

Anthony moves back, giving space, his jaw locked tight, his eyes never leaving me.

“You’ll feel some pressure, but it shouldn’t hurt,” the doctor says, nodding toward the nurse who wheels over the ultrasound machine, and it squeaks quietly against the tile. “Tell me if you feel any pain at all.”

My heart thunders in my chest, but I try to focus on the rhythm of my breath. In. Out. Shaky. Shallow.

The machine powers on with a soft beep, and my eyes close shut for a moment, every muscle bracing for the worst, while my heart desperately clings on to…something. Hope?

“There might be slight discomfort,” the doctor warns, my fingers digging into the thin mattress beneath me.

The probe enters, and my body tenses. Rather than looking at the monitor, my eyes flick to Anthony, who stands just out of reach, fists clenched at his sides.

And by the look on his face, I know there are a thousand thoughts running through his mind right at this very moment.

“Okay…” the doctor murmurs, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “Uterus looks intact… Sac is where it should be.”

The silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Then, “There.” He exhales, pointing to the screen. “There’s your baby.”

My eyes turn to the monitor. At first, it’s just static.

A storm of gray and black swirls, grainy and shapeless, like a snow-blurred TV screen from another lifetime.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to be seeing.

There’s no perfect outline of a baby, no tiny limbs waving hello like in the movies.

Just shadows. Blurs. Pockets of light and dark.

“Fetal pole is visible. Crown-rump length lines up with estimated gestational age.”

Another pause.

Then, suddenly—

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

A rapid, steady beat crackling through the small speaker, fast and fierce and perfect. And my whole. World. Changes.

Anthony’s gaze lets go of mine, and we both glance at the monitor.

There, in the soft glow of grayscale static, is the faint outline of something impossibly small… yet so alive. A bean-shaped curve nestled within a dark oval, flickering with movement so delicate, so rapid, it barely seems real.

But it is.

A tiny rhythm pulses on the screen, like wings fluttering inside a jar. As the doctor moves the probe slightly, zooming in, the image sharpens, and right at the center… that heartbeat. Like a tiny drum, thudding against all odds. Beating…inside of me.

My breath catches.

Not because I’m scared. Not anymore. Because I’ve never seen anything so fragile. So miraculous.

So…mine.

“The heartbeat’s strong.”

A half gasp, half sob escapes me, and I cover my mouth as tears spill free. That sound. That impossibly beautiful sound owns me now.

“Everything looks good,” the doctor says gently. “The hemorrhage is still visible but not expanding. We’ll monitor it. No heavy lifting, no exertion, no stress.”

Anthony nods.

The doctor turns to me again. “We’ll keep you overnight for observation. If there’s no further bleeding or cramping by morning, we’ll reassess. But as of right now…” He glances at the screen. “That heartbeat is the best sign we could hope for.”

He removes the probe, and I flinch, the nurse quickly cleaning the gel and adjusting the sheet over me again, covering the vulnerability I didn’t even realize I felt.

The screen stays lit a moment longer, and I can’t take my eyes off it.

That tiny life.

“Thank you, Dr. Torres,” Anthony says as he steps closer now.

Dr. Torres squeezes my hand, giving me a reassuring smile. “The baby’s fine, Miss Beaumont.”

The baby.

Then he turns to face Anthony. “And I mean it, Dad. No stress.”

Anthony and I look at each other, but before we can correct him, Dr. Torres leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

The silence left behind is louder than the doctor’s voice.

Dad. “We probably should have clarified that part,” I say with a nervous edge.

Anthony sits slowly, dragging the chair closer to the bed, his movements stiff with exhaustion or fear—I don’t know which.

Maybe both. He rests his cane against the bed then leans forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together like he’s trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say.

But it’s his eyes that get me. That wrecked, stunned look like he’s still trying to catch up to heartbreak.

“You okay?” His voice is low, his tone careful.

I nod. Sort of. “I don’t know.”

He lets out a long breath, glancing toward the monitor that’s now a screen of black. “A baby.”

I can’t speak. I just press my hand harder to my stomach, even though I feel nothing there. No kick. No flutter. Just the echo of that heartbeat in my ears.

“You’re nine weeks, Everly,” he whispers as if saying it louder would crack the fragile air between us. “That means… it happened on the island.”

I nod again. “I didn’t even think—” My throat closes around the words.

“I didn’t think I could…the doctors were so convinced I’ll never…

” I suck in a double breath. The reality of it is slow to sink in, yet the relief I feel of knowing I didn’t lose the baby I didn’t know about until just now is… real.

Anthony’s fingers drum a nervous rhythm against his knee. “What are you going to do?”

The question sits heavy in the room. What am I going to do?

A part of me wants to answer immediately. Say something definitive. But nothing comes. Because nothing is simple anymore. Everything’s shifted, twisted, cracked wide open like fault lines splitting across the earth.

“I don’t know.” I stare at where my hand rests on my belly. “I’m not even sure what’s happening right now.”

“What’s happening is you’re growing a baby inside of you.”

He’s stating the obvious, but it doesn’t register all at once. It unspools in fragments. Like my brain can’t accept the whole picture, so it feeds me pieces. That sound. That heartbeat. The tiny flickering of life. Mine.

Emotion tightens in my chest so hard I curl around it, lips trembling, eyes burning. “I wasn’t supposed to get pregnant,” I whisper.

Anthony says nothing. He just stays close. Solid. Present.