KNEELING OVER THE TOILET, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
A kernel of doubt played in a corner of my mind. And then it popped like I’d nuked it in the microwave.
I didn’t have a weak stomach.
And while his story was gut-wrenching and disturbing on a few different levels, it didn’t horrify me to the point I’d lose last night’s dinner in the toilet bowl.
I got to my feet, brushed my teeth, and then went to get dressed.
He’d told me all that thinking I wouldn’t want to be with him anymore. I knew by the regretful look on his face before he’d even begun. He thought I would see him as a victim, or maybe even less of a man.
And as for his mother, I felt no remorse.
I didn’t see him any differently than I had before. Now, I only felt closer to him than ever. And I wanted to be closer, to know more—everything—like what had happened to him and his brother afterward. I wanted to tell him I loved him.
I perused the options on the shelf. Pink boxes. Blue boxes. All kinds of gimmicks—smart countdown timer, extra-quick response time, and an early detection option. It was a little overwhelming. I grabbed the one in the brightest box.
My hands shook as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and ripped it out of the package. I didn’t know why. It couldn’t be possible. I’d had my period a week ago. Granted, it seemed lighter than usual—in fact, the last few had been—but still, a period was a period, right?
After following the instructions, I set the test on the sink and sat on the edge of the tub to wait.
I chewed my lip.
Checked for split ends.
Tapped my foot on the floor.
God, this was ridiculous.
I got up, stomped over to the test, and picked it up.
There was a quiver inside me. It started out slow, working its way to my extremities. It trembled in my veins and burned in my eyes. And when it reached my heart, it squeezed it in a vise, leaving a tight, warm sensation behind.
I slid down the bathroom door, staring at two pink lines.
And I bawled like a baby.
I woke up the next morning at his place, realizing I must have fallen asleep while waiting for him to come home. I could sleep through anything—though, as I ran a hand across his side of the bed, I found the sheets still cold.
I took a shower and got ready for the doctor’s appointment I’d made last week for birth control. It didn’t sound like I would need it anymore, but I was still hesitant to believe I was pregnant. I was concerned about the bleeding and what it could mean. And I worried about not being on prenatal vitamins, the occasional glass of wine I had with supper, and all the rough sex in between. Granted, the latter had probably gotten me into this mess, so maybe that fear was a little irrational.
I made two quick stops before my appointment. One to the bank, and one to Val’s. As soon as she opened the door in a silk robe, I slapped twenty grand cash into her hand. Her laugh followed me all the way to the curb.
As I sat in the waiting room, I sent Christian a text asking him to meet me at noon. It showed he’d seen it, but he didn’t respond. A robust nurse with a friendly smile called my name. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress, took a deep breath, and then followed her.
It was called breakthrough bleeding. Considering I was already eleven weeks pregnant and everything had looked good on the ultrasound, the doctor wasn’t concerned about it. By my calculations, that meant I’d gotten pregnant the very first time Christian and I had sex. I should have expected nothing less from the man.
At noon, I sat on a bench with a grocery sack filled with every kind of prenatal vitamin the pharmacy had and an excitement and fear of the unknown. I was scared about this baby, slightly terrified about not doing things right—I hadn’t had the best childhood to gain experience from. But for the first time in my life, it felt like something had gone right.
Now, I just hoped Christian felt the same way.
I pulled off a piece of bread. “Here, birdy, birdy.”
“Reflecting on your life choices?”
My heart stilled at the deep sound of his voice, but I didn’t look at him yet. The eye-contact would burn with too much emotion, and I wasn’t ready for it.
I swallowed. “Trying out a new career of bird-calling.”
“Ah. It seems you’d better stick with gambling,” he said, as the pigeons all headed in the opposite direction.
“Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“Usually, that somewhere is a little higher than an aspiration to hang out in a park and feed fat pigeons.”
“You sound like an impressionist.”
A smile touched his voice. “I think you mean pessimist.”
I finally met his gaze. Blue. The look grabbed hold and hung on. It wasn’t just ice anymore; it was late nights, rough hands, Russian words, and heavy hearts. His suit and hair were immaculate, as always, but something tired lingered behind his eyes.
“You didn’t come home last night,” I said quietly.
“I stayed at work.” His jaw tightened. “Can’t sleep across a hall from you.”
“I slept in your bed last night.”
Conflict and confusion waged in his eyes. “Why?”
I stood and moved toward him. “I don’t care about what happened in your past. It doesn’t matter to me. And if you think I would see you differently because of what happened to you as a child, or even what you might have done, you don’t know me at all.”
His gaze coasted above my head, his jaw ticking in thought. “You reacted differently.”
“That wasn’t about what you told me . . . but because I’m pregnant, Christian.”
His gaze dropped to search my face and then it filled with something dark as sin and satisfied. “You’re sure?”
“One-hundred percent. I know it might come as a shock and all, considering how careful we were being—”
He cupped my face with a palm, running a thumb across my cheek. “Moya zvezdochka.” I felt the intensity of his relief in the way his hand shook slightly, and it made my throat tighten. I suddenly knew this was the only man I wanted to do this with. Happiness pinged off the walls of my chest, leaving me feeling raw.
He wiped a tear from my cheek. “Are you happy?”
I nodded. “So happy.”
“Good.” His voice was coarse.
He ran his arms around my waist and pulled me closer until I could feel his fast heartbeat. He rested his forehead on mine, cocooning me in his heat and heady, familiar scent: sandalwood and money.
“You don’t think I’m only here now because I’m pregnant?”
“I don’t care why. Just that you’re here, with me.”
“That sounds like an unhealthy mindset.”
A half-smile pulled on his lips. “You have no idea.”
I rose to my tiptoes and kissed him. Heat burst in my chest, sinking into my blood. He held my face and kissed me back. Soft and slow yet deep enough it touched my heart.
I breathed against his lips, “Tell me you love me again.”
“I love you, malyshka.”
“I love you, too, you know?”
He stilled, and then a rough sound rumbled in his chest. He lifted me so my eyes were level with his, brushed his lips across mine, and said in a deep, almost apologetic rasp, “I’m never letting you go now.”
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here. How the next few years would play out, let alone days. Or the problems we might face. But one thing was for sure. As I walked down the street, with a bag of bread and a hoard of vitamins, holding the hand of one of the most morally questionable men in the city . . .
I knew I loved him.
