Evgeny’s smile is gone in an instant, replaced by fury. All I feel is nausea, roiling and terrible, my mouth filling with saliva. I bolt for the bathroom before I heave up the contents of my lunch.
When I return and slump back into my chair, Evgeny is trying to rip out his IVs and get out of bed.
“Are you okay?” His gaze searches me frantically, his thumb on the help button, ready to call for backup.
“Stress,” I answer, then offer a tired smile for his sake. “Worry for you.”
Evgeny’s gaze searches my face again, but the gesture is exploratory this time. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?” he asks. “Eaten well?”
“I’m fine.”
“Eva.” Thepakhanis looking at me now, his mouth a stern line.
“I’ve been here,” I say with a shrug, as if that answers his question. And really, it does.
I’ve been at the hospital almost every minute Evgeny has been there, which he knows because Vasya, Dmitri, and Alona took pains to tell him, over and over.
The stern line becomes softer, and Evgeny covers my hand with his when he’s settled back against the pillows.
“Eva, go home. Take a shower, have Alona make you food, and go to sleep. I’ll be fine.”
I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here and make sure he’s okay. But he keeps at me until I agree to go take care of myself.
Two Kucherov men have been stationed outside his door since we took up residence, first in the ICU and now in the intermediate care unit. Big, hulking men no one wants to mess with. I say goodbye to them as I leave, but not before extracting a promise they will watch out for him. I know they will, but it makes me feel better.
I drag myself home and dimly realize “home” for me has become Evgeny’s estate.
I’m asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, and I don’t wake up again until the following day, exhausted, fuzzy-headed, and wondering where the hell I am because this isn’t the hospital.
By the time I’m out of the shower and dressed in something other than my sweatshirt and leggings, Alona has breakfast andcoffee ready for me. When I sit down, even though I should be ravenous, I’m not all that hungry. My stomach is still queasy from yesterday’s realization about my brush with death.
I push my food around my plate and raise my head to find Alona watching me, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I think all the stress has gotten to me. I’m not feeling great.”
“You have stomach pain?” she asks, her accent so thick I’m glad my father trained my ear.
“No.”
Her mouth bends into a frown. “You vomit?”
“Yesterday.”
“Fever? Chills?”
“No.”
Something sparks in Alona’s eyes. She must have a feeling about what might be wrong.
I have that feeling too. It won’t leave me alone, a quiet whisper in the back of my head that grows louder and louder. It gets so loud I stop at the drugstore on the way back to the hospital and buy two pregnancy tests. Then, because I can’t believe what I’m doing, I stop at a coffee shop and lock myself in one of their bathrooms, trying to work up the courage to pee on the damn stick.
I pee on the second stick because I can’t believe the results of the first.
I find myself in a coffee shop bathroom, entirely alone, staring down at two pregnancy tests that are undeniably, unquestionably, and extremely positive. The double lines are bright pink, almost mocking in their intensity.
“No.No, no, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.”
Someone knocks on the door.
