Fighting for Flight (Fighting, #1) by JB Salsbury
Prologue
I have a brief moment to catch my breath before it’s time to push again. My head lolls to the side, eyes fixing on the shape of a man. It’s hard to tell through the blur of tears and sweat clouding my vision. The bright light illuminating my body is no help. Everything outside of its glow is darkness. But, even in the dark, I know who it is.
How long has he been here? In my labor-induced dementia I didn’t see him come in. My skin crawls, each tiny hair standing on end. I squirm under the weight of his foreboding presence.
The vise grip on my midsection begins its violent compression. I lock eyes with the doctor between my legs.
“One more push, Milena. Take a deep breath.” He wipes his brow with the dirty sleeve of his shirt. The smell of cigar smoke and liquor wafts from his body in nauseating waves. My stomach roils as my body tightens with a contraction.
“Good. Now, push!” I barely hear the doctor count to ten over my groaning.
My torso folds in half as the force of the contraction racks my body. I bite my lip and taste blood, refusing to give voice to my agony. Sweat beads on my skin. I grip the sheets against the unbearable pain. I want to give up, just lie back and sleep, but my womb is intent on purging this baby. A guttural sound rumbles in my throat. Searing pain. Intense pressure. I’m being ripped into two.
“Baby’s out.” The doctor announces to the room.
It’s over. I fall back onto the bed.
The room is quiet except for my heaving breath and the clicking of the doctor’s tools. I study the ceiling, not ready to face what I know is coming.
Exhaustion sets in and my eyelids slide shut, only to fly back open with the shrill cry of new life. Its stuttered vibrato pulls at something deep in my chest. My heart races.
The infant’s scream calls to me on a primal level, begging for comfort only its mother can provide. My arms ache to cradle the baby to my breast. It’s okay, mommy’s here. The words coo in my head, but freeze at my lips. I can’t get attached, not when his plan is to take it away to use it for his own purposes, like a bred work mule.
What kind of work will await this baby when it becomes an adult all depends on one thing. The nagging question picks at my mind.
Sitting up, I rub my eyes to clear my vision. He stands at the foot of the bed, no longer shrouded in the dark. Holding the baby in one arm, he hands the doctor a large wad of cash then flicks his fingers for the man to leave. The doctor scurries out the door like a mouse that just stole from the dinner table, and slams it behind him.
A devious glare catches my eye. “Well done, darling. She’s perfect.” His voice is a the smooth purr that haunts my dreams.
She.
Oh, God. No!
“Dominick, please, I beg you.” I try to put authority behind my voice, but only manage a whisper. “Just give her up for adoption. She’s an innocent—”
“Quiet!” His booming command echoes in the tiny room, making me flinch then cower. “She’s mine. I’ll do with her whatever I please.” The fierce words cut through the newborn’s cries and straight to my heart.
He runs his palm over the baby’s head with the gentle grace of a jellyfish. Serene and lethal. “She has your dark hair, darling. I’ll name her Raven.” He steps to my bedside. “Would you like to hold her?”
My whimpered reply has him smiling. He knows what I’ve just done. Like laying out my cards in a high stakes game of poker, I’ve just shown him my weakness.
No, I can’t hold her. If I do, I’ll never let her go.
“I see.” He keeps her in his arms and strolls to the single window. “You may raise her.” His gaze slides back to mine. “But make no mistake, Milena, if you do anything to interfere with my plan, I will kill her. Then, you and I will start from scratch, and I’ll not make it pleasant for you. Do you understand?” As if he can see into my soul and feel my fear, he smirks.
Revulsion courses through my veins like venom, making it impossible to speak. I close my eyes and nod, trying to force dry the tears that stream down my face.
If I could only take it back. The day everything had spun out of control. The moment Dominick Morretti ruined my life. Leaning against his car with his blond hair and those beautiful blue-green eyes, he looked like an angel. He spoke tenderly with sincere reverence and offered me a life I could only dream about. My heart wanted so badly to believe he was my savior: a heavenly messenger sent to wrap me in his embrace and whisk me off to my happily ever after. But he was no savior. He was my undertaker.