My mind flashes through every fucked up scenario at once. Miscarriage. Early labor. Infection. I don’t know what the fuck it is, and not knowing is worse.
I put my hand over hers where it’s pressed against her belly. “Sima. Look at me. I need you to tell me what hurts. Is it cramps? Your stomach? The baby?”
Her eyelids flutter. She whispers something I can’t catch, then swallows hard and curls tighter around herself.
My gut twists. This isn’t just her feeling off. This is bad. Real fucking bad.
I press my other hand to her forehead again. The heat rolling off her makes me grind my teeth. She’s way too sick. And if it touches the baby?—
No. I can’t even finish that thought.
I won’t let it happen. Neither one of them is going to slip through my fingers.
Not while I’m still here.
“You need a hospital.”
Sima shakes her head weakly, still curled up on the floor. “No. Maybe it’s just something I ate.” Her voice is thin, broken, like every syllable takes too much effort. “I’ll be fine.”
“Bullshit.” I slide my arm under her shoulders, another under her knees. “I’m not risking you. Or the baby. You’re seeing a doctor.”
She makes a small sound of protest, but it’s weak. She doesn’t fight me when I lift her. She feels lighter than she should. Too light.
The heat of her body burns through my shirt. Sima’s head falls against my chest. Her hair sticks to my neck with sweat. I can feel how much she’s trembling. Each shiver goes straight through me.
“This isn’t nothing,” I mutter against her hair. “You’re burning up.”
Her head shifts, like she’s trying to shake me off, but she doesn’t have the strength. “I don’t… need a hospital.”
“You’re going. End of story.”
I carry her out of the bathroom and down the hall. My steps are fast, controlled, but inside I’m boiling. She’s too limp in my arms. Her eyes don’t focus properly. Her fingers keep clawing weakly at my shirt. She’s hanging on by a thread, and all she cares about is not being a burden.
Fuck that. She’s my wife. I’ll take care of her if it kills me.
I kick the bedroom door wider, start down the stairs. My phone is already at my ear.
“Luka,” I bark the second he answers, “meet me at the front with the car. Now. We’re going to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” he asks. “Is something wrong with?—”
“Don’t talk,” I cut him off. “Just be there.”
I shove the phone back in my pocket. Sima groans again, clutches weakly at her stomach. My grip tightens around her until she’s secure against me.
“Hang on,” I tell her. “I’ve got you. Just hang on.”
26
SIMA
The hospital gown scratches against my skin.
I shift on the bed restlessly. Panic still bubbles up every five seconds, even though the medicine has settled in my veins.
The IV drips. Cool fluids flow into me. I feel better than I did when Petyr carried me in, but my mind won’t quiet.
What the hell was that? Why did it hit me so hard? Is my baby still okay?
