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The very babies I would have given anything for.

My gaze landed on the broom leaning against the wall. It was practically screaming my name. The wooden handle. The worn bristles. I didn’t remember crossing the room. I only remembered wrapping my fingers around it. This wasn’t the plan.

Yeah, well, plans fucking change as opportunity presents itself.

My heart pounded. My breathing sounded strange—loud and entirely too fast.

“You killer.” The words tore from my throat.

Isabella’s head snapped toward me. Confusion flashed across her face. Then fear. I swung. The broom connected with a sickening crack to the side of her knees. The ladder tipped. Boxes tumbled from the shelves.

Isabella hit the concrete hard. The sound echoed through the room. For a second, neither of us moved. Then she cried out, pushing to her feet.

A raw, broken sound erupted from my throat. “You fucking monster. You don’t deserve him.”

I raised the broom again. She threw her arms up. The handle struck her shoulder. She curled away immediately. Protecting her stomach. Protecting them. Oh, now they mattered to her. The rage inside me intensified.

“Stop!” she screamed.

“No, thank you. I don’t think I will.”

The words came out calm, considering I was standing over her about to be her judge, jury, and executioner.

“What’s wrong? You were going to kill them, anyway.”

I hit her with the broom several more times before ditching it. I lunged for her. I grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. A cry ripped from her throat as she fought back.

“Please.” Tears streamed down her face. “Please, stop.”

All I could see was every dream I’d lost. Every future that should have been mine. Every night I’d spent staring at the ceiling, wondering where it all went wrong.

I shoved her, taking an immense amount of joy when she fell to her knees and tried to crawl away. Rage exploded inside me. I kicked her. Then again, this time harder. The impact jarred all the way up my leg.

She rolled into a ball. A choked sob escaped her.

“Please,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

Why? The question almost made me laugh. Blood stained the gray fabric of her leggings. A bright, beautiful red. Impossible to miss. I couldn’t stop staring.

The world seemed to narrow around that single patch of color. I knew what it meant. I knew exactly what it meant. The horror on her face was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

“No.” The word came out broken.

Her hands moved. One pressed harder against her abdomen, the other went between her legs. Terror filled her eyes when she pulled it away. I should have stopped. Any sane person would have. Instead, I looked at the blood and thought of the clinic.

Thought of Pasha. Thought of everything I’d lost.

“You don’t deserve any of it.”

I straddled her, grabbing her hair again. Stands pulled free, much to my surprise. I slammed her head against the concrete. The impact echoed through the storage room.

She always tried to act tough. The truth was, she was as pathetic as her best friend. Her body went limp for a second. Then twitched. A fresh cry escaped her.

“We were supposed to be together,” I screamed. The words bounced off the walls. “Do you hear me? It was supposed to be me.”

She tried to speak. Tried to move. The roaring in my ears drowned everything else out. Somewhere far away, a voice told me to stop. To leave. To run. NOW.

She struggled against me. The pain, the anger, the betrayal—it was all mixed, driving me to the edge. I pummeled her all over, going back and forth between smacking her head on the ground and punching her as she tried to cover her face.