Lorraine's gaze locked on the tiny form lying on the cold stone floor.
"My baby—"
She pushed herself up with trembling arms, still half-caught between two worlds, and crawled toward him. Leroy tried to reach her, to catch her, to support her, but she was already lifting the newborn into her arms, clutching him with a choked sob.
The baby stirred at her warmth, his small face drawn into a drowsy frown before he relaxed against her, knowing her scent instantly. Lorraine pressed her cheek to his hair, breathing him in as though she could fill every hollow left by death with him alone.
Leroy watched her, his joy flooding through him—bright, overwhelming, dizzying—but tinged with a shadow that tightened around his chest. He remembered too clearly the dagger in his hand. The madness of grief. The desperate, unforgivable moment where he had aimed to take his own son's life because the world had seemed so cruelly empty without her.
