Eight months pregnant, bleeding across jagged rocks, I watched the tide race toward me. My mother-in-law yanked my hair and shoved my face into the surf. “Only one of us leaves this island alive—and it won’t be the breeding machine.” I clawed at the stones, protecting my baby, then heard a motor beyond the fog. She froze. Because the man stepping onto shore was supposed to be dead—and he was calling my name.

by Geekrew Originals · Aug 6, 2026 · completed