Too soon.
“No, no, no,” I whisper.
Another contraction grips me, stronger this time, and my knees buckle. I cling to the railing and force myself not to collapse.
My mind races. How far along am I? Thirty-four weeks. Maybe thirty-five. Not full term. It’s not safe yet.
I look around, disoriented. The house is silent. Petyr’s men are posted somewhere outside, maybe, but they won’t come unless he says so.
Or unless I scream really, really loud.
I squint through the pain. The intercom is on the far wall, just out of reach. If I yell, maybe someone will hear me. Maybe.
But my voice feels trapped in my chest. If someone did push me, then yelling might bring the wrong person instead.
My shoulder burns when I move. My ankle screams with every shift. The pain builds and fades, then comes again, closer now. I can’t tell how long it’s been—minutes, maybe—but the contractions are already too close together.
I press my palm harder against my belly. Try to will the baby to stay put just a little longer.
“Please,” I whisper. “Not yet. Just wait.”
Another wave hits, sharper than the last, and steals the breath right out of me.
Tears blur my vision, but I blink them away. I can’t afford to lose focus. Not now. She needs me.
I push myself up, one step at a time, and drag my bad leg behind me. Every movement feels impossible, but I keep going. Count under my breath, force myself not to give up.
Halfway up, I stop again. My chest is heaving. The pain isn’t letting up, not a bit. It’s steady now, a low pulse, and it feels like it’s growing stronger by the second. Even if my head refuses to accept it, my body knows what’s coming
I glance down the stairs. The drop looks steeper now. If I fall again, there won’t be a second chance.
Then I hear footsteps down the hall.
Please,I beg silently.Let it be Petyr. Let him find me.
But it’s not him.
Luka appears at the top of the stairs, eyes wide and hair a mess, like he sprinted here half-asleep. “What happened?” His voice is tight, alarmed.
“I—” My throat closes around the word. “I slipped.”
I can’t say I was pushed. Not yet. I don’t have any proof, and besides, why should Luka of all people believe me?
He hates my guts. He told me so. The Danilos killed his family, and he doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me.
Which right now is pretty fucking far down the stairs, if he chose to do it. I’m not tempted to test my luck.
But for once, Luka doesn’t look mad at me. His eyes flick over me, down the steps, and back to my soaked pajama pants.
The color drains from his face. “You’re bleeding?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. It’s not blood.” I press a hand to my stomach. My breath itches with the motion. “My water broke. The baby’s coming.”
Luka just stands there, frozen. I’m half-expecting him to finish the job someone else started—an assassin or gravity or the Bent-Neck Lady herself.
Then something in his expression shifts.
He swears under his breath as he starts moving fast down the steps, taking them two at a time until he’s in front of me.
