Page 95 of Louder Than Words

She rises from the chair, but pauses with her hand on the door handle, turning to face us again.

“We’re not out of the woods, Allie. The size and placement of the hematoma, along with the slower heart rate… it puts the pregnancy at very high risk for miscarriage. The truth is, many pregnancies in this situationdon’tmake it. But with that said, I’ve also seen pregnancies pull through against the odds. It’s not hopeless, but you have to let your body rest—give it every chance it has.”

Jax’s hand runs slowly down my arm before he looks up at her. “Thanks, Dr. Lavoie.”

She offers a small smile. “You’re welcome, Jaxon. It was nice meeting you. Allie—I’ll see you in a week to follow up.”

The second the door clicks shut, and it’s just Jax and me sitting alone in the sterile, too-bright room, everything feels cold. It feels like someone opened a window, letting the bitter December air touch everything—my skin, my bones, even my spine.

I’mnumb.

That’s what the feeling is. I’m just numb to everything. Jax’s hand tightens on my shoulder, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t put a dent in anything. I’m so far away from everything that I don’t even know how to feel anymore.

He whispers something in my ear, but all I hear is the pounding in my chest, in my head, all over my body.

I want my girls. I want to be alone. I want my bed.

All I know is I don’t want to be here.

38

Jax

It’s been twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours since Allie has left the bed, eaten anything, or uttered a single word—to meorto Ana.

We keep trying. Pushing water, crackers, soup, anything we think she might take in. But every time we set something down in front of her, she just looks up with the saddest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen, and it kills me.

I know I’m just a guy, and maybe I don’t understand all of it, but when Dr. Lavoie said it wasn’t completely hopeless, I held onto that. A chance that this baby could still make it. That in nine months, we’d be holding our son or daughter, looking down at a little carbon copy of ourselves.

But Allie looks like the fight is already over.

Do I push her to talk? Do I back off and give her space? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I just need someone—anyone—totell me how to fix this. Because watching her disappear like this is slowly killing me.

Witnessing someone you love with your entire being retreat into themselves is a special kind of torture. And it’s not like I blame her. I get it, really, I do. It’s like Dr. Lavoie said, she’s been through the wringer lately.

The wringer.

A fucking fire.

The nine circles of hell.

Whatever you want to call it.

One person can only take so much pain, and she’s just bracing for the worst. But if this baby is going to make it, if we’re ever going to meet them, she has to hold onto whatever scraps of hope are left. We both do.

I tiptoe into her bedroom, balancing a tray with freshly brewed coffee, French toast I made after digging up the recipe from her favorite breakfast spot, and even a few handpicked wildflowers from around her postbox.

I’m barely inside the room and can already tell she hasn’t moved an inch since I last checked on her an hour ago. She’s still curled up into a ball under her wine colored duvet bunched up under her nose, her eyes swollen and red.

I set the tray gently on the nightstand and sit beside her, slipping an arm around her back and pressing a kiss to her temple—the closest I can get.

She peeks at me through one half-lidded eye, then closes it again.

“Thank you,” she whispers, voice still raw and hoarse from crying. “But I’m still not hungry.”

I start rubbing her back gently, leaning closer to her ear. “I know, Al. But you have to try and eatsomething. The baby—”