The snow against the terminal glass looked like thrown salt.

Outside, the tarmac was a sheet of white, the yellow lights of the airplanes barely visible.

My suitcase handle felt cold and heavy in my hand.

The paper boarding pass in my pocket was crumpled from where my fingers kept clenching it.

I was thirty weeks pregnant, and I was running from the only man I had ever loved.

Adrian found me near Gate B12.

He stood at the end of the long corridor, his dark wool coat dusted with melting flakes.

He looked tired, the shadows under his dark eyes matching the gray Chicago sky outside.

“Claire,” he said, his voice quiet but clear over the terminal din.

I stepped back, my spine hitting the cold metal of a row of waiting chairs.

“Don’t come any closer, Adrian.”

He stopped immediately.

He raised his hands, palms open, showing me he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“Let me take you home,” he said. “It’s a blizzard out there. The flights are already being grounded.”

“I’m not going back to that house,” I said.

My hand went to my stomach, moving protectively over the swell of my coat.

He saw the movement, and his eyes softened.

“It’s not safe for you out here alone,” he said.

“It’s not safe with you,” I replied.

The words left my mouth, and then the first sharp pain hit me.

It felt like a cold blade twisting deep in my lower back.

I gasped, my knees buckling as the floor seemed to tilt.

Adrian closed the distance between us in a single stride.

His strong hands caught my elbows before I could fall.

“Claire? What is it? Tell me.”

“Something is wrong,” I whispered, clutching his lapels.

The pain flared again, hot and terrifying, blooming across my abdomen.

Before Adrian could lift me, three men in dark overcoats cut through the crowd of stranded passengers.

They did not look like airport security.

They had gold badges clipped to their belt loops and their hands rested near their hips.

“Adrian DeLuca,” the lead man said.

Adrian did not let go of me.