And she still knew.

That she would protect her child with all of herself.

When it woke her from her sleep that morning at 3 a.m. she wanted to cry. She reached for the sleeve of saltines that she kept beside the bed and chewed on one, feebly, hoping that it would do something to counteract the horrible, cramping nausea.

It didn’t. She rolled out of bed and ran into the bathroom, just making it to the toilet before she lost the meager dinner she had managed to consume the night before.

She rested her head against the cool porcelain, sweat beading on her brow, tears streaming down her cheeks. She knew that she wasn’t going to be able to move, not for a while. It always held her captive for quite a bit of time.

She felt miserable. And small. And a whole lot like the vulnerable girl she had never been allowed to be while growing up.

Had she ever been like this? Had she ever just sat down and cried?

There had never been the choice.

She had been around her father, who would use that weakness against her, and her mother, who hadn’t really cared. Not as much as she said.

She scrubbed her arm over her eyes, feeling completely beset by her misery now.

Ryder was right. Her mother had never really cared that much. Not about her. She had used her as an excuse.

Suddenly, she felt strong hands on her shoulders, felt the warmth of a solid body behind her.

“Can I get you anything?”

She shook her head miserably. “No. My body hates me.”

And with the way she felt, it was difficult for them to have much in the way of a sexual relationship at the moment, so she felt disconnected and useless. Less like a sacred vessel of life and more like one of agony.

A wife he would be sorry to have before he ever had her.

He pulled her back against him, cradling her in his arms, and she went limp, resting there.

He was where she had always been able to be vulnerable. He had always been strong for her.

But it reminded her of that night. That night that he had come to her rescue. The one they didn’t much talk about.

She closed her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Did I ever thank you?” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

“Sammy...”

“I mean, we don’t really talk about that night so much as talk around it. I think he was going to kill me,” she said. “I really do.”

“I can’t think about that,” he said, his voice rough.

“All I did was...” She had never told him this. And he had never asked. Of course, he never would. Of course, in response to her father beating her mercilessly he would never ask what she had done to earn that, because of course he would never believe that she had.

Not Ryder.