“It…it looks the same as when I left it.” She glances toward the bed. “My dress.”
My gaze follows hers to the bright fuchsia gown she wore to the reception the night before she was sold to Vigo—the night of our performance.
“It never leaves the bed,” I tell her. “I always sleep next to it.”
She looks up at me with love and sadness in her eyes. I want to bend and kiss her, but then she sighs and turns away, looking down at the pink box hopelessly.
All the fucking boxes and secrets tonight.
“I just need to get this over with,” she tells me, melancholy ripe in her tone.
She turns and wanders away without another word, her eyes glued to the box in her hands. I step after her, thinking I should hug her, kiss her, tell her again that everything will be okay. But before I can reach her, she closes the bathroom door behind her, transfixed on whatever words are printed on the back of the box.
I pace for a minute or so.
The toilet flushes.
The faucet runs.
The door clicks open.
She comes out empty-handed, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “It…it says to wait two minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Two pink lines is positive. One line is negative.”
“Okay.”
“I took both tests in the box. There were two. I left them on the sink.”
“Okay.”
Her eyebrows slant toward her nose. “Okay? Is that all you have to say? Okay?”
I toss up my hands. “I don’t know what the fuck else to say, Anya. I’m at a loss here. Just a few hours ago, the only thing I had to worry about was saving your life. I never in a million fucking years would’ve thought pregnancy was even on the table.”
Her jaw sets and ticks as she shakes her head. She’s pissed and she’s directing all that angry energy at me. I step closer, putting my hands on her biceps to comfort her. She tenses against my touch and I don’t know what to do with that so I drop my arms and back away, lifting my palms as if I need to surrender.
Her forehead wrinkles, frustration with me peaking. “What are you doing? Don’t back away from me, I just—” Her breath catches in her throat and she suddenly starts to cry. Her arms slip from their hold and slowly fall to her sides. “I don’t know how to deal with all of this.”
Fuck.
I feel like I’m handling everything wrong.
I dash to her, throwing my arms around her, pulling her close, impossibly close. I press one hand to the small of her back and hold her against me, the other traveling to the back of her head, guiding her to press her cheek to my chest.
“I’m sorry, Anya. I’m sorry. I know it’s shit. It’s all shit. I just…I don’t know how to deal with this, either.”
She cries into my chest and I hold her.
I just hold her.
I don’t let go until her sobs have calmed and she pulls back. She lifts her head to look at me with those goddamn bewitching eyes of hers. “I think it’s time.”
I nod at her, give her a small smile, and place a kiss on the center of her forehead. “You want to look alone or together?”
“Together. Always together.”
I release her from my hold and slip my hand down her arm. I catch her palm in mine and lock our fingers together. I let her lead us to the bathroom. Her fingers squeeze mine tighter and she puts her free hand over her heart, freezing in the doorway and pressing her eyes shut. She takes a deep breath, then another. I watch as she centers herself, finding her courage to face the truth, whatever it may be.
She steps past the threshold as she opens her eyes, going straight for the sink. I step with her but keep my eyes on her face. I don’t want to see what the tests say—I don’t need to. I just need to see her, know what she feels, and be ready to open my arms for her.
Standing squarely in front of the sink, she looks down to her right where two pregnancy tests lay side by side. Her eyes flicker, registering what she sees.
She stills.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
Her lips fall apart when she exhales and her forehead wrinkles as her eyebrows knit together.
Then her face falls.
The hand over her heart lifts to cover her mouth and her eyes catch her reflection in the mirror. She sways in my hold and her eyelids flutter, as if they want to force their way shut. She tilts away from me, her hand loosening from my grip.
“Anya!”
“I’m—” Her eyes roll back in her head and she starts to fall sideways, away from me.
I wrap my hand around her wrist and yank her upright, pulling her to fall into my arms instead. She’s limp in my hold—she fainted. I bend and scoop my arms beneath her legs, lifting her and carrying her back to the bedroom. I carefully set her on her bed and check that she’s breathing and that her heart is still beating.
She’s alive, just exhausted, overwhelmed, and malnourished.
Fuck. I need to get her something to eat.
I leave her on the bed to dash back down to the kitchen. I grab juice from the fridge, some bread from the cabinet, and snatch a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter. I rush it all back to the bedroom, wondering on the way if we’re completely alone in this mansion. I didn’t see any signs of the chef or either of the people who clean the home. Of course, Nikolai probably dismissed them to return to their families while he was away for the quarterly meeting.
I get back to Anya just as she’s opening her eyes. She pushes up to her elbows as I kick the door shut behind me. Rushing toward her, I set everything on the floor beside her bed and kneel.
“Take it easy,” I murmur. “You passed out.”
“Ezra, I’m…did you look at the tests?”
I shake my head. “No. You passed out. I set you down here and went to get you some food.” I grab the single-serve juice bottle and open it before handing it to her. “Here, drink this.”
She takes it from me and drinks slowly, taking several small sips before handing it back. I start to peel the banana for her. “I’ll make you a proper meal as soon as I can, but I’m guessing your blood sugar is ridiculous right now. Eat this.”
I hold out the fruit for her, but she doesn’t take it. Instead, she gives me unflinching, soul-shattering eye contact.
“I’m pregnant.”
No, she’s not.
She can’t be.
Fuck. She is.
I let out a heavy breath, sinking back to sit on my heels. “Well. Fuck.”