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My dress is certainly short enough to make it a bit risqué.
I’m crazy about Mishka. Everything about him, everything he does, makes that fact more apparent. I love that even though I’m completely falling apart, he seems to know how to manage me. And he does it effortlessly, no anxiety, no anger. He does it with a passion and care that makes my heart beat.
Now, more than ever, I’m determined to figure out a solution to be with him and keep our baby.
My stomach plummets as my secret returns to the front of my mind. The thought of telling him I’m pregnant fills me with excitement, and at the same time, I dread the possibility that he might not want it. He might not want to be with me if I want to keep it.
How could he when its very existence puts his life in danger?
But if I could convince him to leave with me, if we just disappeared… maybe then, the idea of having a child could be more appealing.
“Run away with me,” I blurt, closing the distance between us once again as I rest my palms against his chest.
A mischievous smile graces his lips, and his eyes glint in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. “I thought we already talked about this. Isn’t that the plan as soon as you finish college?”
God, how is he so devastatingly wonderful?
He just takes my crazy in stride and runs with it.
“What if I don’t want to wait? What if I’m ready now? We should just go. Leave. Tonight,” I press, willing him to catch my enthusiasm and jump on board.
Instead, a deep frown creases his forehead, accentuating the line between his brows. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and dark as he picks up on the anxiety beneath my suggestion. “You’ve never talked like this before.”
“What do you mean? I’ve suggested we run away plenty of times. Why does anything have to be wrong for me to change the time frame?” I pull away, my gaze shifting to the door as his scrutinizing gaze seems to pluck the truth from my mind without even trying.
“I don’t know. You just sound almost…” He pauses, as if searching for whatever emotion it is that he’s picked up on. “Scared,” he concludes finally. His fingers catch my hand, giving it a squeeze when I can’t meet his eyes. “Alina?” he prods when I hesitate.
I force my gaze up to his, and my heart stutters at the deep concern in their blue depths.
Tell him, my conscience urges. He has a right to know.
“Are you in danger?” he asks, cupping my chin in his free hand to ensure I maintain eye contact.
No, but you are. I bite my lip, trapping my confession inside.
“Did something happen that you don’t want to tell me about?”
Yes.
Panic spreads through my chest. I’m not ready to tell him, to put it all out on the table. I can’t stand the thought that this could be the last time he touches me, the last time he looks at me with such tender affection. Devotion, even. His concern rocks me to my very core.
I know I should to tell the truth.
He needs to know.
But I can wait just a little longer, right?
One more night. I’ll give myself one more night with him. Then I’ll tell him everything and hope that I can live with the consequences. Relief floods me as I give myself a little bit more time. It’s selfish, I know. But I don’t have the strength or courage to do it tonight.
Now, I just have to recover from the lapse in composure and get Mishka back out onto the dance floor, where he can’t keep digging for the truth.
“Scared?” I snort, doing my best impression of tipsy, though I have very little experience to go by. “I’m just drunk and teasing you. I can’t believe you fell for it!” I joke, stepping playfully out of his grasp.
His eyes follow me skeptically, his expression unconvinced, but he doesn’t have time to question me further as I dance toward the bathroom door.
“Alina,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of warning.
“Come on, Mishka. Don’t be such a worrywart. If you want something to agonize over, why don’t you start thinking about how I’m not wearing any panties?” I flirt.
