Then Lydia rolls in the ultrasound machine, the room shifting to something quieter, more expectant.

Dr. Moreau snaps on gloves. “Since you’re maybe ten weeks pregnant, we’ll be doing an internal ultrasound today.”

I swallow hard. I don’t like to put my feet on the straps.

“You okay?” Atlas murmurs.

I blink at him.

For a second, just one, his concern feels real.

I force a nod. “Yeah.”

Dr. Moreau dims the lights, and the screen flickers to life.

I brace myself.

Atlas straightens, his entire focus locked onto the screen like it’s the only thing in the room that matters. His jaw twitches, tension rolling off him in quiet waves.

I don’t breathe as Dr. Moreau preps the wand, her voice calm, detached. She explains how early scans require an internal ultrasound, how it’ll help get a clearer picture.

My fingers dig into the crinkled paper beneath me.

I almost say no.

Then I remember why I’m here.

I need to know.

The wand is cold. The pressure, invasive. It’s clinical, nothing dangerous, but my body doesn’t care about logic. Still, I tense. My breath hitching, heart hammering against my ribs. A ghost of a memory slithers in—Winston’s hands pushing me down, his voice, the way he always made it sound like a favor. Like I should be grateful for him to . . .

I close my eyes.

I am not there. I am not with him. Yet I can still feel his hot breath asphyxiating me while he touched me, while he . . .

Stay present, I insist. You’re safe. My body still reacts, muscles clenching, a sickness curling in my stomach.

Atlas shifts beside me, his voice low. Gentle. “Blythe.”

I force my eyes open.

He’s watching me, not the screen.

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

I exhale shakily.

“Relax,” he says, quieter this time. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word shouldn’t mean anything, not coming from him. Not when I know better than to trust anyone.

But the way he says it—calm, certain, with no expectation, no pressure—makes me want to believe him.

So I inhale, exhale, and try to calm down.

Soon enough, the sound fills the room.

A rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. It’s a strong sound. That makes my heart stumble.

The doctor glances at the screen, a soft smile in her voice. “There’s your baby.”

Atlas’s hand tightens around mine, grounding me in a way I don’t expect. He hasn’t let go since I tensed up earlier. Now, he gives a small squeeze—it’s a small gesture, and I’m not sure what to do with it. It feels strange to feel some kind of support when my life is shifting yet again. The sensation is foreign, and I want to hide. I definitely do not look at him.

I can’t look at anything but the screen.