Elena Brooks could barely feel her feet anymore. Every step sent fire up her torn soles, but she couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when she was carrying the reason she kept breathing: the quadruplets.
Six months caring for them in the Whitmore estate had been enough. They didn’t share her blood.
But they had her whole heart.
At twenty-three, she should have been worrying about college classes or dating.
Instead, she felt like an old woman fleeing hell.
In the front baby carrier against her chest slept Liam and Noah, warm and fragile. In a hiking backpack rigged with blankets on her back, Ava and Lily breathed softly, unaware of the nightmare they’d escaped.
Eighteen miles.
Eighteen miles barefoot.
Her sneakers had fallen apart miles ago. Gravel and splinters tore at her skin. Every stone felt like punishment.
I should have left sooner.
The memory chased her.
Her third day working at the sprawling Whitmore mansion. Margaret Whitmore — silver hair, diamond necklace, eyes as cold as winter — had walked into the nursery holding a metal bucket that reeked of chemicals.
“Step aside,” Margaret had said sharply. “These babies need proper cleansing.”