Page 85 of Feral King

“Every move we make right now is a risk, at least this one has the potential for information.”

CHAPTER 31

LYRA

“Ms. Thibodeaux, your vitals are stable. No concussion, no injuries from the incident.”

It’s a relief to hear. I sit back on the examination table, my eyes adjusting to the fluorescent white lights.

“What happened? I was feeling a little sick before the event. Did I pass out? Was it nerves?”

Dr. Reeves is a calm woman in her forties. She has gentle eyes and a warm smile as she stands at the foot of my bed in a private room on the third floor. Julian’s doing, no doubt.

The room is nice. I’ll take it after what happened.

“Specifically, you fainted due to a combination of acute stress and low blood pressure—a common cause of passing out.”

“Okay, so nothing too serious?”

Her expression changes in a way that lets me know that there is, in fact, something serious. My blood runs cold.

“Well, your blood work flagged something we need to discuss.”

I shift in my seat.

“Flagged something.”

“Yes. Your hCG levels are elevated.” She pauses, watching my face for a reaction. “Ms. Thibodeaux, you’re pregnant, approximately six weeks.”

Everything stops. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the beep of the monitor, the bustle of staff moving around in the hallway outside my door.

It all just…stops.

Six weeks. I do the math. Six weeks ago I was in my apartment in Astoria with Julian Volkov in my bed, his mouth on my skin, his hands on every part of me and?—

“Ms. Thibodeaux? Do you need a moment?”

“Yes.” The word comes out flat, my voice sounding like it’s being spoken by someone other than me. “Several moments, maybe a year—or two.”

Dr. Reeves offers a small, professional smile. “I understand that this may be unexpected. And we can discuss your options whenever you’re ready. For now, though, I recommend rest, hydration, and a follow-up with an OB-GYN within the next two weeks. I know this is sudden and unexpected, but do you have any questions?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.” My mind is totally blank, devoid of any thoughts, let alone intelligent questions about my situation.

“Alright. Feel free to ask if anything comes to mind. For now, I’ll give you some privacy.”

With that, she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

Once I’m alone with my thoughts, I realize that she didn’t congratulate me. I’m not mad at her for it—she most certainly noticed that my own reaction was measured, that I might not have considered it something to be congratulated about.

I sit there, staring off into space.

I’m pregnant with Julian Volkov’s baby. The baby of a Bratva heir. I’m carrying the child of a man whose enemies just opened fire on a party with 300 guests, a man whose name alone is a target, a man who, by simply being in his world, has almost gotten me killed not once, but twice, over the last few weeks.

A man who can break fingers and faces in a dingy warehouse, then turn around and tie children’s shoes in an orphanage.

I press my hand flat against my stomach. Nothing feels different, though I suppose that nothing should this early. Six weeks is barely anything. But my hand stays where it is, the warmth of my belly against my palm feeling more real than it ever has before.

Then a thought occurs to me:I can’t stay here.