I literally begged my husband on my knees to take me to the ER because I was in labor, but he snapped that I was just being dramatic and walked out to celebrate his mother's birthday.

Marcus didn't just come alone.

When you are the son of four-star General Thomas Hayes, and your little sister calls you from a hospital bed saying she was left to die, you don't just call a cab. You mobilize.

I was drifting in and out of a painkiller-induced sleep when the atmosphere in the ICU suddenly shifted. The standard hospital noise faded, replaced by the heavy, synchronized thud of combat boots marching down the linoleum corridor.

The door to my room swung open.

Marcus stepped inside. He was still in his tactical fatigues, his presence so large it seemed to consume the room. Behind him stood two men in sharp black suits—military intelligence.

"Sarah," Marcus exhaled, rushing to my bedside and dropping to his knees. He took my pale, IV-bruised hand in his massive grip. "I'm here. You're safe."

I looked at my brother, the tears flowing freely now. "He left me, Marcus. I was bleeding on the floor, and he went to a party."

Marcus’s jaw tightened, the muscles ticking dangerously in his cheek. His eyes, usually warm when he looked at me, were completely black with fury.

"Where is he?" Marcus asked quietly.

"I don't know," I whispered.

Marcus stood up, turning to the two men in suits at the door. "Track his phone. Find out where he is, who he is with, and what he’s been doing for the last twenty-four hours. Lock down this hospital wing. Nobody gets in to see her unless they go through me."