She had only ever given herself to Winn. Only him. The memory of that intimacy—the tenderness in his hands, the way he used to whisper her name—was her one thread of sanity. It was the light she clung to in the aftermath of everything. The stranger who had taken her dignity had not taken that.
He could never take Winn from her, or the small heartbeat growing inside her belly. That baby was her reason to breathe. Her tether.
Still, she couldn't tell anyone that. If she dared to speak the truth—that she sometimes heard the man's laughter when she closed her eyes, they'd probably drag her to a psychiatrist.
"How are you doing?" Trish asked gently, snapping Ivy out of her spiral. The two women were curled up on the garden chair.
"I'm fine," Ivy said automatically, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Trish arched a brow. "Okay, I know you're healing. Physically. But how are you settling into all of this?"
