I laugh, leaning into him, trying to grab it back. “Hey, give me that!”
“No,” he says, smirking, keeping it raised. “You insult the chef, you lose your privileges.”
“Chef?” I scoff. “You heated food someone else cooked, Niko. That doesn’t count.”
His arm hooks around my waist suddenly, pulling me flush against him, the fork forgotten. His lips brush my ear when he whispers, “Careful,ogonek. I could find other ways to feed you.”
My breath catches, and I swat at his chest, though my laughter betrays me. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm,” he hums, nuzzling against my cheek before pulling back, that rare, unguarded smile tugging at his mouth. “But you’re laughing. So I’ve done my job.”
My smile falters, but not from sadness—from something deeper. Something that makes my chest feel too tight and too full at the same time. I never thought this man—the cold, ruthless Niko Rusnak—would be here, sitting on a bed, making me laugh over breakfast.
I study him, searching for the cracks in the armor, and he lets me look. Lets me see.
And against my better judgment, against everything I told myself, I realize I like what I see.
He tilts his head, catching me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I mutter quickly, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “Just…surprised.”
“By what?”
“That you can be sweet.”
He chuckles, low and warm, pressing a kiss to my forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
Before I can answer, his phone starts buzzing from the dresser. He groans under his breath, sliding off the bed. “Always when I’m busy,” he mutters, pushing to his feet. “Don’t eat all the toast without me.”
I watch him grab the phone, his voice already low and clipped as he heads out into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the room feels too quiet.
I reach for another bite of toast, but the smell hits me wrong this time. Butter, eggs, even the faint sweetness of jam—it all turns sour in my stomach. My chest tightens. Heat rushes up my throat so fast it makes me gag.
Oh God.
I shove the tray away, stumble out of bed, and half-run, half-collapse into the bathroom. Cold tile bites my knees as I grip the edge of the toilet, retching until my throat burns. The sound echoes in the small room, humiliating and raw.
I try to steady myself, to breathe through the nausea, but the spinning won’t stop. My head feels light, my hands clammy. I curl forward, forehead against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut.
The nausea eases just enough for me to slump back against the wall, trembling. My chest rises and falls too quickly, my body still buzzing from the heaves. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying to ground myself.
And then it hits me.
I count backward in my head, lips moving soundlessly. My period should have come last week—no, the week before. My stomach flips again, but this time it isn’t from the nausea.
The fatigue. The waves of queasiness I brushed off. The way I’ve been sleeping more, blaming stress, blaming Niko, blaming everything but what it could actually mean.
Oh God.
My throat closes, a different kind of sickness washing over me. I whisper the words into the quiet bathroom, as if saying them aloud will make them less real:
“I’m late.”
The sound trembles in the air, fragile and terrifying. My fingers curl around my knees, pulling them to my chest as the weight of it presses down on me.
I wipe my mouth and splash water on my face, trying to erase the blotchy redness, the panic still etched in my reflection. My legs feel weak as I push myself upright, and for a moment, I lean against the sink, willing my heartbeat to slow.
When I finally step out, the bedroom feels too bright, too open. Niko’s voice is faint in the distance, still clipped and commanding on his call. I slip back onto the bed, the tray of breakfast waiting where he left it, steam curling from the coffee.
