**Cynthia's POV**

Everyone had left, I felt so drained but resting wouldn’t give me as much joy as seeing my son and kissing him goodnight. I just wanted to hold onto him, feel his warmth, feel alive again. Just something to forget the hurt I feel inside.

I approached Amber’s room quietly, not wanting to startle him if he was already asleep. But as I drew closer, I heard his voice..

"Aunt Anna, guess what happened today!"

I froze, my hand halfway to the doorknob, well... Anna is being very deliberate about taking everyone I love from me. Isn't it just too late to be on a phone call with Amber?

"Mom wouldn't let me have ice cream this morning. She said it was too early and I hadn't finished my breakfast. But you would've let me, right? You always let me do what I want."

My heart skipped a beat, as much as I wanted to walk away so as not to ruin the little joy I had left, I was also curious to know what he talked about with Anna.

"She's so annoying," Amber continued, his voice taking on that petulant tone I'd been hearing more and more lately. "She makes me go to bed early, she picks out my clothes, she won't let me play games on weekdays. And today…" He laughed, "…today she said she had a headache and wanted Dad to leave work and take her to the hospital. Can you believe it? She's so dramatic. Dad didn't even believe her either. It was kind of hilarious watching her try to get attention."

The world tilted beneath my feet. I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself.

Hilarious. My dying was hilarious to him.

"Oh, it's almost ten o'clock." Amber's voice dropped to a whisper, taking on a conspiratorial edge. "Mom will come to lock my phone soon. She always does. She's like a prison guard."

Another pause. Then, softer, almost wistful:

"I wish she would just... go away. Or die or something. Then you could be my mom instead. You're so much better than her. You're pretty and fun, and you actually care about what I want."

My chest constricted so tightly I couldn't breathe.

"Good night, Aunt Anna. Love you too!"

The call ended. I heard the rustle of blankets as Amber settled into bed, probably hiding his phone under his pillow the way he always did.

I stood there in the darkened hallway, trembling. The child I had carried for nine months, through morning sickness so severe I'd been hospitalized twice. The baby I had labored eighteen hours to bring into this world. The boy I had nursed through colic and ear infections and nightmares. The son I had sacrificed my dreams for, my education, my entire identity.

He wished I was dead and he was laughing about it with the woman who was sleeping with my husband.

I don't know how long I stood there. But it was long enough for my legs to go numb. Finally, I turned away from his door and walked mechanically toward the master bedroom.

Ethan was already in bed, still wearing his dress shirt with the top buttons undone, one arm draped over his eyes.

"Ethan." My voice came out raw, barely above a whisper.

He didn't move. "What now, Cynthia?"

The casual dismissal in those three words nearly broke me.

"I need to talk to you." I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for support. "Please."

He sighed. "It's late. I have an early meeting tomorrow with the Bennett account. Can this wait?"

"No." The word came out stronger than I expected. "No, it can't wait."

He finally moved his arm, glancing at me with irritation creasing his forehead. "Fine. What is it?"

"I'm sick." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm room. "I went to the hospital today. They ran tests. Ethan, I have a brain tumor."

For a moment, surprise flickered in his eyes, then it was gone, replaced by skepticism.

"Cynthia." He sat up, running his hand through his hair. "Can you please stop making trouble? Do you have any idea what a brain tumor patient actually looks like? They're... they're sick. Really sick. You're standing here perfectly fine, giving me this melodramatic speech…"

"I'm not fine!" My voice cracked. "I've been telling you for weeks that something's wrong! The headaches, the nausea, the dizziness…you all just kept telling me to take an aspirin and stop complaining!"

"You're always complaining about something." He swung his legs off the bed, standing to face me. "Last month, it was back pain. Before that, you were convinced you had some kind of vitamin deficiency. Now it's a brain tumor? What's next, Cynthia?"

The words hit me like slaps.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"Where were you today?" I asked quietly. "When I called you. Where were you really?"

His jaw tightened. "I told you. I was busy."

"You weren't busy." My voice hardened. "You were having tea in a café with Anna and Amber."

The silence that followed was deafening. He tried to avoid my eyes, and I wanted to push further to make him at least feel a little remorse.

"I saw you, Ethan. I saw both of you. Outside the obstetrics ward." My voice rose despite my best efforts to control it. "I heard Anna tell you she's pregnant. So I'm asking you directly, as your wife…is that child yours?"

This time, he stared at me with a very unreadable expression, then he looked away like I was talking trash.

He didn't deny it or feel any remorse; he didn’t do any fucking thing except stand there, silent and damning.

Before I could utter another word, his phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the tension like a knife. We both looked at it.

Anna flashed across the screen.

Of course it was.

Ethan hesitated for just a second, then grabbed the phone and answered.

"Anna?" His voice immediately softened, all the irritation and coldness evaporating. "What's wrong?"

I watched him transform before my eyes. "Don't worry, I'll be right there." He was already moving, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "No, it's fine. I'm leaving now."

He ended the call and finally looked at me.

"We'll talk when I get back."

"Ethan, please…"

"Listen." He stopped at the door, one hand on the frame. His voice was flat, emotionless. "If it weren't for Anna's parents, we'd both be dead."

I already knew this — he’d thrown it in my face a hundred times over the years. When Ethan and I were kidnapped years ago, Anna’s parents died saving us. I lost my memory, and the police couldn’t return me to my real family. That was when Ethan’s father stepped in and adopted both Anna and me.

"Perhaps if you hadn’t tricked my father into loving you so much for him to think you were some kind of saint, some perfect daughter-in-law material, so he'd force me to marry you... we wouldn’t be here doing this"

"That's not true."

"Well, congratulations, Cynthia. You got exactly what you wanted. A husband, a home, a life you never could have had otherwise. You should be grateful. You should be content with that."

Each word was a nail driven into my heart.

"We'll talk when I get back," he continued, then walked out.

The bedroom door closed with a soft click.

I stood there, listening to his footsteps descend the stairs. The front door opened and shut. His car engine started, then faded into the distance.

Silence swallowed me whole.

My son wished I was dead.

My husband was rushing to another woman who was carrying his child.

My mother-in-law had made it clear a thousand times that I was a burden, a mistake, a curse my father-in-law had inflicted on them and I was dying.

Six months left, and I was spending them in this house that had never been a home. With people who would probably celebrate when I was gone.

My eyes drifted to the wall opposite the bed. There, in a simple frame, hung a poster I'd bought years ago at a street market. The Eiffel Tower at sunset, golden light washing over the Seine, the city of dreams spread out below.

Paris.

I had wanted so desperately to go to Paris when I was young. The École de Cuisine, one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the world. I'd been accepted on a full scholarship, but Ethan had refused to let me go.

"It's too far," he'd said. "What if something happens? No. Choose a local school."

In obedience, I had swallowed my dreams and enrolled in a mediocre culinary program thirty minutes from his parents' house, where I learned basic techniques I already knew and graduated with a certificate I never used.

If I only had six months left, I wouldn't spend them here. I wouldn't die in this house, in this life that had slowly suffocated me. I would go to Paris. I would see the city I'd dreamed of. I would walk along the Seine at sunset. I would eat croissants in sidewalk cafés and visit the Louvre, and maybe I would even enroll in a cooking class.

I stood there for a moment, looking around the bedroom. Eight years of my life had been spent in this room, and I couldn't think of a single happy memory.

Then I walked down the hall to Amber's room.

The door was still closed. I opened it carefully, letting the light from the hallway spill across his sleeping form.

He looked so small beneath his blankets. So innocent. Clutching the stuffed bear I'd sewn for him when he was three, back when he still hugged me goodnight and told me he loved me.

When had that stopped? When had I become the enemy?

"Goodbye, Amber," I whispered.

He didn't stir.

I closed the door softly and walked back downstairs. My suitcase felt lighter than it should, considering it held the remaining pieces of my life.

#5

**Cynthia's POV**

The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport with a jolt that sent sharp pain radiating through my skull.

I'd endured fourteen hours of fluorescent lights and recycled air and the constant hum of engines that seemed to vibrate directly into my brain but I'd made it. I was in Paris.

The city I'd dreamed about for so long. The place where I would spend my final months alive.

I gathered my small carry-on and shuffled off the plane with the other passengers, my legs felt disconnected from my body, like I was walking on stilts, my eyes were going on a hula-hoop.

I made it halfway through the arrivals hall, and I couldn’t hold it any more, my muscles locked, the floor rushed up towards me, and in seconds, everything went black.

***

I woke to steady beeping and the antiseptic smell of the hospital.

Fucking hospital again.

For a moment, I thought I was back in Missford in that sterile room where a doctor had told me I had six months to live and the past few hours had been a dream — that I'd never made it to Paris.

"Ah, you're awake."

I turned my head slowly toward the voice.

A man stood beside my bed, probably in his thirties, on wire-rimmed glasses. A white coat with a name embroidered on it that I couldn't quite focus on.

His eyes were kind and concerned.

"How are you feeling?" he asked in English, though his accent was distinctly French.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," I managed. My throat was raw.

"That's not surprising. You had a grand mal seizure in the airport. You're lucky… you could have seriously injured yourself in the fall." He picked up a chart, scanning it with a deepening frown. "But what I don't understand is how you were allowed to board a plane in your condition."

I said nothing.

"You have a terminal brain tumor." He looked up from the chart, his expression somewhere between disbelief and anger. "Advanced stage, clearly causing severe neurological symptoms. Any competent medical professional would have deemed you unfit to fly. This is simply unreasonable!"

"I didn't give them any medical report concerning that," I said quietly.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. What matters is that you're here, and you need immediate treatment. We'll need to run more scans, consult with oncology, possibly look at surgical options…"

"No." I pushed myself up to sitting, ignoring the way the room spun. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving? Madame, you just had a seizure. You're in no condition to…"

"I'm discharging myself." I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Every movement sent shockwaves through my head, but I forced myself to keep going. "Thank you for your help, but I'm leaving."

"You can't be serious." He moved to block my path. "Your condition is critical. You need to be hospitalized for observation at minimum. Without treatment…"

"I'll die. I know." I looked for my shoes, my bag, anything. "I'm going to die anyway. I'd rather do it on my own terms."

"This is madness…"

"Please." My voice cracked. "Just let me go."

"I can't do that. As your doctor…"

"I don't have any money." The words came out flat, defeated. "I can't pay for treatment. I can't pay for this hospital stay. I can barely afford a hotel room for a few nights. So please, just let me leave before the bill gets any higher."

He frowned, worried and trying to search my eyes for seriousness.

My trembling hands betrayed me and my bag slipped, spilling my stuff out.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said automatically, bending to help gather my things.

“Thank you…” I said, picking up my stuff as hurriedly as I could, then I noticed his hand hovered over my pocket watch, not quite touching it.

"Where did you get this?"

"What?" I reached for it, but he got there first, picking it up with the care of someone handling something impossibly precious.

The case had popped open from the impact of the fall, and inside was an old family portrait of a mother, a father, and four children… three boys and a little girl. I had had that pocket watch since the kidnap, since I was twelve and it was a wonder why the doctor stared at it like he was seeing a ghost.

The doctor stared at the photo like he was seeing a ghost.

"Where did you get this?" he repeated, his voice shaking now. "Please, I need to know. Where did you get this pocket watch?"

"I don't… what business is it of yours?" I tried to take it from him, but he pulled back, his eyes suddenly bright with tears.

"Please. Please, this is important. Where did you get it?"

The intensity in his voice made me pause. "I don't know. I've had it since... since I can remember. It was with me when…" I stopped, uncertain how much to reveal. "It's been with me my whole life."

He stared at me in disbelief

"What city did you fly from?" he asked rapidly. "How old are you? When is your birthday?"

"I… what? Why…"

"Please!" His voice cracked. "Please, just answer me."

"Missford. I'm thirty years old. My birthday is March fifteenth." The words came automatically, even as confusion swirled through me. "Why does it matter?"

"Do you have a birthmark?" He was standing now, moving closer. "A star-shaped birthmark? On your back, just below your left shoulder blade?"

What is he? Psychic? Because I have a birthmark exactly where he described. I'd always thought it looked like a small constellation.

"How do you know about that?" My voice came out as a whisper.

"Your parents," he said, and now tears were openly streaming down his face. "Are they still alive?"

"I’m adopted… " The memory was hazy, fragments of things I'd been told. "I don’t know who my biological parents are. What is with the interrogation, Doctor?"

"Oh my God." He sank into the chair beside the bed, the pocket watch clutched in his hands. "Oh my God, it's you."

"What are you talking about?" Fear crept into my voice. "Who are you?"

He looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed, his hands shaking.

"This pocket watch belonged to my little sister," he said quietly.

My legs wouldn't hold me anymore. I sat back down on the bed, hard.

"That's impossible," I whispered.

"The photo." He opened the pocket watch fully, showing me the faded image. "This is my family. "

I looked at the photo and the thought of him being my family frightened me.

"No," I said, “You must be mistaken.”

"Please." his voice broke. "Please… can you wait here for a moment…" He grabbed my hand, desperate. "Please. Just wait. Just give me a few minutes."

I wanted to refuse, but he sounded so desperate and I was just too tired to even argue. “Okay…”

Relief flooded his face. "Thank you. Thank you. Just… Please don't leave. I'll be right back."

He rushed out, still clutching the pocket watch, leaving me alone in the sterile hospital room.

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands, expecting to have received countless texts and calls but I was in awe at how not even a single soul tried to reach out to me.

They probably haven’t noticed I’d been gone, or they just didn’t care.

That was enough for me to move on completely. I opened the back of the phone, pulled out the SIM card and dropped it in the trash bin beside the bed.

I didn't need it anymore.

I wasn't going back, I would just die peacefully here.

***

Fifty-three minutes later, the door burst open.

A woman rushed in, old but elegant in the way French women always seemed to be. Gray hair swept into a neat chignon, wearing a cream cardigan and pearl earrings even though she'd clearly been crying.

She stopped when she saw me, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God, Cici."

And then she was across the room, pulling me into her arms, "My daughter," she sobbed into my hair. "My Cici. My baby girl."

I sat frozen in her embrace, my mind reeling.

"I don't…I’m not…" I tried to filter my words just so I don’t hurt her feelings.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, her hands cupping my face. "I have missed you so much Cici”

It was confusing and endearing how she knew my nickname is Cici.

"How… how do you know my nickname is Cici?" I asked, confused.

Her smile was sad. "Because I'm the one who gave it to you. Your full name is Cynthia Cynclair Laurent. But when you were little, you couldn't pronounce Cynthia. You called yourself Cici, and it stuck." She stroked my hair, and the gesture felt so natural, so right, that it scared me. "You were only twelve when they took you. My beautiful, bright girl."

"Cynclair Laurent," I repeated. The name felt foreign and familiar all at once.

The doctor, Julian, clue from his name tag, said quietly. "We immigrated to France after we thought you died."

"We spent years looking for you," his mother continued. "And then they found that poor girl's body, and we thought…" Her voice broke. "We thought we'd lost you forever."

I wanted to believe them. God, I wanted to believe that this was real, that I'd somehow stumbled into a miracle, but I couldn't let myself hope. Not when hope had been beaten out of me over eight years of marriage.

"We should do a DNA test," Julian said almost immediately, "I can have the lab run it tonight. Results in a few days…"

"No," I said.

They both stared at me.

"No?" the woman repeated. "But why?"

"Because I'm dying." The words came out matter-of-fact, empty of emotion. "I have a terminal brain tumor. Six months, maybe less.”

The silence was suffocating.

"So no," I continued, "I don't want a DNA test. Because if it turns out I'm your daughter, if this is all real, then you get to have me back for maybe six months before I die again. And that's…" My voice cracked. "That's crueler than not finding me at all."

The woman made a sound like she'd been struck.

"And I don't have money for treatment," I added, needing them to understand the full picture.

Julian ran his hands through his hair. "Cici… if you are Cici, money is the least of our problems. I'm a neurosurgeon. One of the best in the world. And if there's even a chance to save you, we'll take it."

"I don't want…"

The woman pulled me back into her arms, and this time I didn't resist.

"My darling girl," she whispered. "You've been hurting so much, haven't you?"

And maybe it was the gentleness in her voice, or the exhaustion, or it was the tumor eating away at my brain.

I sobbed into her shoulder like a child, and she held me like I was precious, like I mattered, like she would fight heaven and hell to keep me safe.

"Please," Julian said softly. "Please, just let me try. Let me do the scans, review your case, see if there's anything we can do…"

The woman pulled back, wiping tears from both our faces. "Will you let us try, Cici? Will you let your brother try to save you?"

I looked between them, the eagerness in their eyes, I should probably try this.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."

#6

**Cynthia's POV**

Julian didn't waste time.

Within an hour of my agreement, I was being wheeled through corridors for more scans.

They brought me back to the hospital room, Julian was waiting with a tablet full of images I couldn't interpret. His expression was serious, studying the images.

"Tell me," I said. "Just tell me the truth."

He sat down, setting the tablet on the bedside table. "The tumor is large. It's in a very difficult location, near the brain stem, which controls all your vital functions. Breathing, heart rate, consciousness. Operating there is..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It's like defusing a bomb. One wrong move, and..."

"And I die on the table," I finished.

"…or worse." His voice was quiet. "You could survive with severe deficits. Paralysis, loss of speech, cognitive impairment. The risks are significant."

I looked at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster that formed patterns like constellations. "So my options are: die slowly and painfully over the next few weeks, die quickly on the operating table, or survive as a vegetable."

"There's a fourth option." Julian leaned forward, his eyes intense. "You survive. I've performed this surgery before… three times. The first patient didn't make it, second survived but with significant impairment and the third…" His voice filled with something like hope. "… walked out of this hospital weeks later and went back to her life."

"One out of three," I said.

"Better odds than zero out of zero."

He had a point.

While I was still considering the odds, the door burst open.

"Where is she?"

I turned and two men stood in the doorway, both tall, both imposing in completely different ways.

The first was older wearing a suit that probably cost more than my wedding dress had, the second was younger, closer to my age, wearing jeans and a leather jacket despite the early hour. His hair was longer, artfully disheveled, and even exhausted from travel he was almost absurdly handsome.

They both froze when they saw me.

"Hi," I said, because what else do you say to men you haven't met before but are suddenly somehow your supposed brothers?

"You look just like her." The younger one moved first, crossing the room in three quick strides.

He stopped a few feet from my bed, shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn't trust what they'd do otherwise. "I'm Kevin. I'm… I might be your second brother, and that's Nathaniel, the eldest and the bossiest."

"I'm not bossy, I'm organized," Nathaniel said, but his voice was softer now. He approached more slowly, studying me with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. "May I?"

He gestured to the chair beside my bed. I nodded.

He sat, and for a long moment, he just looked at me, the way Julian had, like he was trying to see past skin and bone to something underneath.

"I don't remember any of you. I'm sorry." I said quietly.

"Don't apologize." Kevin had taken up a position by the window, too energetic to sit. "Julian explained about the trauma, the memory loss. It's not your fault."

"Yeah, when they found me, I couldn't remember anything other than my name…Cici. That’s why I couldn’t even find my family. The doctors back then called it dissociative amnesia. Everything before the kidnapping is just... blank. Like I didn’t have a life before the kidnapping."

Nathaniel's hand covered mine, where it rested on the blanket. His grip was warm, solid, real. "I’m so glad that we’ve found you."

That melted my heart, I never knew I could be loved and desired by people in just after a few days of feeling l was a mistake and a burden to everybody.

They settled in, talking about random things about the family and how they can’t wait for me to return home. Their certainty that I was their sister even though the DNA test hadn’t been conducted baffled me.

Nathaniel made phone calls in rapid French to people in New York, London, Tokyo… pausing international business deals, rearranging his entire schedule. "Family emergency," he said, and refused to elaborate.

Kevin sprawled in the chair by the window, telling me stories about Formula One racing that I only half understood but found myself smiling at anyway. His energy filled the room, chasing away some of the clinical sterility.

Their mother arrived with fresh clothes for me, soft things that didn't smell like hospital. She brushed my hair with gentle hands and didn't ask questions when tears slipped down my cheeks at the simple kindness of it.

And Julian came and went, checking monitors, adjusting medications, but always returning to sit beside my bed and explain exactly what the surgery would entail.

I told them about the kidnapping I couldn't remember. About waking up in a hospital with no memories and no one to claim me. About the Walker family who'd adopted me out of guilt, because their son Ethan had been kidnapped alongside me.

"Wait." Kevin sat up straighter. "Ethan Walker? The Ethan Walker from Walker Industries?"

"You know him?"

"Know of him." Kevin’s expression darkened. "Mid-tier company, trying to break into European markets. He's been making overtures to some of our partners."

"Our company is significantly larger," Nathaniel added. "We've crossed paths at conferences. I didn't realize he had an adopted sister."

"I’m now his wife, actually." I said quietly.

I told them about the forced marriage. About Anna, the other adopted daughter, and her manipulations. About eight years of being treated like a servant in my own home. About my son, Amber wishing I was dead. About discovering Anna's pregnancy and Ethan's betrayal.

By the time I finished, their mother was crying silently, and all three brothers looked murderous.

"I'll destroy him." Nathaniel's voice was ice. "Walker Industries will be bankrupt within six months."

"I know people," Kevin said, his usual cheerfulness completely gone. "People who could make his life very difficult. Very painful."

"He's not worth it," I said tiredly. "He's not worth any of this. I just want to be free of him."

"We'll handle both of them," Nathaniel said. "After you're recovered. After you're safe."

Julian's smile was brilliant. "That said, we operate tomorrow morning. Six AM."

"Then we do the DNA test," Nathaniel said. "And when it confirms what we already know, that you're our sister, our Cici… and we welcome you home properly."

I could see in their eyes they'd already decided I was theirs.

***

They prepped me at five AM.

I was wheeled through quiet corridors, mother holding one hand, Nathaniel the other. Kevin walked alongside, unusually quiet, while Julian had gone ahead to scrub in.

Outside the operating theater, they each said goodbye.

Nathaniel kissed my forehead. "You're stronger than you know, Cici. Prove it."

Kevin squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. "You better wake up, little sister. I have so many embarrassing stories to tell you about these two."

Their mother cupped my face in both hands, her eyes swimming with tears. "I lost you once. I'm not losing you again. Do you hear me? You fight with everything you have."

"I will," I promised.

And then they wheeled me through the doors, and Julian was there in his surgical gown, his eyes the only thing visible above his mask.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No," I admitted. "But let's do it anyway."

He nodded to the anesthesiologist. "Count backward from ten."

"Ten... nine... eight..."

The world began to fade.

"...seven... six..."

I thought of Paris. Of the life I'd come here to end, and the life I might be starting.

"...five... four..."

I thought of Ethan and Amber, they should have been here for me.

"...three... two..."

I really want to survive.

"...one..."

***

"...vitals are stable..."

"...swelling is within expected parameters..."

"...Julian, you need to rest, you've been awake for…"

"I'm not leaving her."

I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids weighed a thousand pounds.

"Did you see that?" Kevin’s voice, sharp with hope. "Her hand moved!"

"Cici?" their mother, closer now. "Cici, darling, can you hear me?"

I managed to crack my eyes open. Everything was blurry, too bright, but I could see shapes hovering over me. Four shapes.

My family.

"There she is." Nathaniel's voice was rough, like he'd been crying. "There's our girl."

I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry, too raw from the breathing tube

"Don't try to talk," Julian said quickly. "You've been intubated for twelve hours. Your throat will be sore."

"Did it... work?" The words came out as a croak.

"Yes." Julian's eyes above his mask were bright with tears. "Yes, Cici. I got it all. Every bit of the tumor. The margins are clean. You're going to be okay."

I closed my eyes as relief flooded through me. I was alive. I survived.

"And..." I opened my eyes again, meeting each of their gazes. "...the smell. What... smells good?"

Kevin laughed, the sound breaking on a sob. He held up a white paper bag. "Egg tarts. You used to love them when you were little."

"You remembered," their mother whispered, tears streaming down her face. "You remembered your favorite food."

I didn't remember. Not really. But the smell felt like home in a way nothing had felt like home in years.

"Can I..." I swallowed painfully. "Can I have one?"

"Later," Julian said firmly. "When you're off the feeding protocol. But soon, I promise."

Nathaniel bent down, pressing his forehead to mine gently. "You scared us, little sister."

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Don't be sorry," Kevin said fiercely. "Just don't do it again."

Their mother was crying too hard to speak, just holding my hand and pressing kisses to my knuckles.

"The DNA test," I said. "I want to do it."