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It’s not like I’m actually sick.
“So you haven’t felt dizzy or nauseated before?” the neurologist presses. “Perhaps during the migraines?”
“Oh. Well, yes, I do usually get nauseated during particularly bad episodes. And dizzy…” I think back. “Yeah, I guess sometimes.”
The painkillers I take knock me out most of the time, and I definitely get dizzy from that.
“Do you have any other gastrointestinal symptoms?” Rousseau asks as he jots down notes. “Upset stomach, diarrhea, anything along those lines?”
“Not really. I mean… maybe a little from the meds,” I admit.
Rousseau’s head snaps up. “Which meds? What do you take?”
I sigh and list all the pills I’ve been prescribed over the years. As I go on, I can see the disapproving looks on the doctors’ faces.
“Painkillers are the only things that truly help me,” I say defensively when they’re done scribbling their notes. “I’m not addicted, I swear.”
It’s possible I’ve overused the pills at certain times in my life, but I’ve always been able to stop.
“She also smokes pot,” Alexei says, and I shoot him a dark stare as the doctors scribble on their notepads some more.
“When was your last menstrual period?” Bureva asks, her pen at the ready. “Any chance you could be pregnant?”
Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “About three weeks ago, and yes, major chance.”
I throw Alexei another glare, but he’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s watching the ob-gyn, who is frowning for some reason as she takes her notes.
“What are your dizzy episodes like?” the neurologist asks. “Can you please describe one for me?”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Why? I’m pregnant, okay? That’s what this is. Just have me pee on a stick and get it over with.”
My tone is sharp, but I can’t help it. My headache is worsening by the second, and I’m getting those black dots in the corners of my vision. If I don’t lie down, I may pass out, and won’t they have a field day then?
Bureva looks up from her notepad. “If your calculations are correct, it’s unlikely that you’re experiencing morning sickness, Alina Vladimirovna.” Her tone is even and slightly detached. “Since you haven’t missed your period during this cycle, your HCG levels shouldn’t be high enough to cause such strong symptoms. But of course, there are always exceptions, and we will definitely test you for pregnancy. For now, can you please tell me how long your cycles are, and if they’re regular?”
What is she saying? If it’s not pregnancy, what could it possibly be?
I dampen my lips. My mouth is suddenly feeling dry. “About twenty-eight days, and yes, pretty regular.”
“Again, can you please describe your dizzy episodes to me?” the neurologist asks. “I’m sorry to insist, but this is important. When you feel dizzy or faint, do you see any kind of flashing lights or dots?”
A strange chill permeates my stomach. “Dots, I guess.”
“No flashes?” he persists.
“There were flashes from the camera. It was at the wedding. Alexei’s brother was taking pictures and…” I shrug helplessly and cast a look at Alexei.
He’s standing like a statue, staring at me, his jaw clenched so tightly I’m afraid he’ll break his teeth. Is he angry? Upset? My stomach tightens, and I turn my attention back to the doctors, who are now conferring among themselves in low voices.
“Let us get the rest of your medical history, Mrs. Leonov, and then we’ll run all the tests,” Rousseau says.
I nod, swallowing against a wave of nausea, and do my best to answer all their questions. When they’re done, Whitman takes my blood—a ridiculous amount, something like fifteen vials—and then Alexei carries me up to the deck, ignoring, as always, my insistence that I can walk. Ruslan, Larson, and Vika are up there, all three of them standing by the rails and staring at something.
That something is the submarine. It’s next to the yacht, the top of it sticking out of the water like a metallic shark’s bulky fin. I have no idea how big it is under the water, but the part of it that’s visible is at least the size of this yacht. I’m not sure what I was picturing, but it wasn’t something this gigantic, for sure. Is it military grade? I suspect it is, and if so, I wonder which military the Leonovs got it from—or which military they’re manufacturing it for.
With the Leonovs, one never knows what shady pies they have their fingers in.
There are a million questions buzzing in my mind, but there’s no time to ask any of them because Alexei carries me to the starboard ladder and sets me on my feet before it.
“Do you think you can climb down there?” he asks, nodding at an inflatable raft bobbing in the water below. “If not, I’ll strap you to me and carry you down on my back.”
“I can definitely climb,” I say, infusing my tone with all the confidence I can muster. “Seriously, I’m completely fine.”
