Theon sat frozen long after Roman ended the call. The phone was still in his hand, the screen dark, but he kept staring at it. If he hadn't heard the cry—that sharp, indignant wail cutting through the speaker—he wouldn't have believed it.

Roman Sinclair, delivering his own child. On a living room floor. In the middle of a snowstorm. Theon shook his head. "I have to see this for myself." He had already planned to return to Trevinia because of the outbreak spreading through the hospitals. Patients were increasing and the symptoms were too familiar.

But he had delayed, hesitated, and made excuses. Part of him knew why. Trevinia meant...