[Unknown Location...]
Lucien was still perched on the baker's back like a miserable, shaking prince on a meat throne.
His legs had gone numb ages ago. His breathing? Ragged and uneven. And that stupid wooden leg he was holding like a sword? It now felt heavier than his will to live.
What started as self-defense now felt like an Olympic sport for the chronically exhausted. His skin was clammy, his vision was politely asking to black out, and the blood on his temple had dried into some avant-garde abstract art—but it still hadn't stopped bleeding entirely.
His limbs trembled.
His stomach made the sound of a haunted cello.
He was officially powered by nothing but spite and pregnancy hormones.
Too angry.
Too scared.
Too hungry.
Too alone.
He curled in a bit, one hand slipping protectively over his belly.
"Wobblebean..." he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking at the edges. "Just hang in there, okay? Mama's got you. We're gonna be fine. I promise."
