Page 56 of Knife Thrower

“That’s Teddy,” Cole mutters, shoving his feet into the leather.

I drop the knife and rag onto the small table, my heart kicking a fast, erratic rhythm against my ribs. We bolt out the metal door, our boots grinding into the gravel.

The chaos centers around the double-wide trailer parked near the edge of the tree line. Silas, Nova, and Teddy’s home.

Jules stands on the aluminum steps, her biker boots planted shoulder-width apart, physically shoving Logan backward by his chest.

“You cannot go in there with a lit lighter, Holloway!” Jules barks, her dark brown eyes flashing with pure authority. “She’s in labor!”

“I’m trying to offer moral support!” Logan argues, craning his neck to look past her blue hair.

“Go set a trash can on fire somewhere else!” Jules shoves him again, then spots us jogging up the path. “Get him out of here, Cole. It’s happening.”

Cole grabs the back of Logan’s collar, hauling the fire eater backward. I don’t stop. I take the metal stairs two at a time and push past Jules into the air-conditioned cabin.

The interior of the trailer is a madhouse of pure, unfiltered panic.

Nova lies on the massive mattress in the rear bedroom, her knees bent and splayed wide. Her wild auburn hair sticks to her forehead in dark, sweat-soaked clumps. She grips the sheets, her knuckles bone-white, her eyes squeezed shut in agony.

Silas crouches on the left side of the bed. His usually immaculate hair stands up in tufts where he’s run his hands through it, his blue eyes wide with helpless terror. He holds Nova’s left hand in both of his, pressing her knuckles to his mouth.

On her right, Teddy. The all-American golden boy has stripped his button-down shirt off, wearing only a white undershirt plastered to his chest with sweat. He brackets Nova’s right shoulder, murmuring a constant, steady stream of instructions he clearly memorized from a textbook.

“Breathe, sweetheart. Count of four. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like the classes.”

Nova rips her right hand out of his grip and slaps his chest hard.

“Fuck your classes, Agent Coleman!” she screams, a raw, guttural sound. “I am pushing a watermelon out of a lemon-sized hole! I will murder you! I will murder both of you!”

“I know, baby, I know,” Silas babbles, entirely willing to accept his impending execution. “I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a private island. I’ll burn a city down. Whatever you want.”

At the foot of the bed stands a stout, gray-haired woman with the sleeves of her flannel shirt rolled up past her elbows. Maggie. She’s married to one of the rig mechanics and spent thirty years as a delivery nurse before joining the carnival circuit.

Maggie snaps a pair of latex gloves onto her hands with a sharp, professional crack.

“Hospital is forty minutes out, and this kid is coming in five.” Maggie points a gloved finger at Teddy. “Stop quoting pamphlets at her and hold her right leg up. Crowley, get her left leg.”

Wren hurries out of the narrow bathroom, carrying a plastic basin of ice water and a stack of clean white washcloths. The veterinarian navigates the chaos with a calm, clinical efficiency, dropping the basin on the nightstand.

I stand frozen in the doorway.

A few weeks ago, the sight of a pregnant woman sent a jagged, suffocating spike of grief straight into my lungs. The phantom weight of a newborn pressing against my chest would have sent me running for the deadbolt.

I look at Nova. The fierce, feral escape artist who builds her life on defying cages, currently trapped in the brutal, inescapable grip of human biology. I look at Silas and Teddy, two lethal men reduced to trembling wrecks by the woman they love.

The panic doesn’t come. The grief stays quiet.

I don’t bolt. I step fully into the room.

“Maggie,” I say, my voice steady, cutting through the noise. “What do you need?”

The older woman throws a quick, assessing glance over her shoulder. She reads the absolute lack of hesitation in my posture. “Keep her forehead cool and keep her grounded. The pain is making her dissociate.”

I move to the nightstand, plunging a fresh cloth into the ice water. I wring the excess moisture out, stepping right between Silas and the headboard, then I press the freezing fabric against Nova’s flushed forehead.

Her green eyes fly open, wild and unfocused. She thrashes her head, her teeth bared in a snarl.

“Nova, look at me.” I keep the cold cloth pressed to her skin, sliding my other hand down to grip her bare shoulder. “Look at my eyes.”