I’m not usually one to get upset at Mother Nature for doing her thankless job. But for the last few days, my breasts have been tender, my moods all over the place, and my cravings absolutely out of control. And while that’s textbook PMS, a small, traitorous part of me wondered if…
… if maybe I was pregnant already.
I didn’t let myself dwell on it. I know better than to indulge in the toxic fumes of hope. But the thought was still there, hovering, like a balloon I wasn’t sure I wanted to pop.
I’m not sure how I feel now that it has in fact gonekaboom.
Petyr won’t like this.That’s the first thought that grips me. He’ll be disappointed, I’m sure of it. He’s worked so hard to put a baby in me. And yeah, granted, I don’t think it was exactly an unpleasant ordeal for him, but still. This wholearrangement hinges on me getting pregnant. That’s the endgame, not the—admittedly amazing—sexathon sessions.
So why do I feelrelieved, too?
I slap both my cheeks. It’s okay, right? If I’m not pregnant, that means we’ll have to try again next month. It means more of Petyr naked above me, staring at me with those honey-brown eyes that always seem to get darker when we’re in bed. It means biting his name into the pillow and gasping it between kisses.
It means more ofus.
Because, once that baby’s finally inside me, then there won’t be any real excuse to keep it going. The deal will be fulfilled. My end, at least.
And then, nine months later, I’ll be packing up for good.
“Snap out of it,” I tell myself. “You knew what you were in for. You don’t get to act all mopey now.”
So I take a shower. I dump my bloody underwear in the hamper and stick a tampon in me. After all the exercise Petyr put me through, it feels damn near effortless.
I pop an ibuprofen in my mouth and walk down to breakfast, my books tucked under my arm. I need to focus on my classes. Put Petyr out of my mind for good.
For the rest of the day, that’s exactly what I do.
By the time I’m back at Hill House, it’s late afternoon. The sun is painting orange flecks on the evergreens, making the woods look almost peaceful.
I drop my bag on the couch and fall on it like a sack of potatoes.
“Hey there, roomie,” says a snide voice.
Fucking shitballs, here we go.
I try to give my best shark week smile. “Hi, Kira. Were you waiting for me at the door, or did you hide behind it and forget to say ‘boo’?”
She arches an eyebrow, like she wasn’t expecting me to call her out on her obvious ambush. But fuck it, I’m not pregnant, my uterus is being remodeled by a crew of angry wasps, and I just spent eight consecutive hours with my ass glued to a plastic chair straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. She can damn well deal with my attitude.
She swirls her glass. The dark liquid inside it looks expensive. Wine, perhaps, or the blood of virgins. “So, no double pink line this month, huh?”
I turn to stone. “Excuse me?”
She flashes a triumphant smile, very punchable. “Such a pity,” she croons, not sounding sorry at all. “I was so looking forward to being an aunt.”
She knows I’m not pregnant.The realization burns hot through me. There’s no way she should have that information, not when I haven’t even told Petyr yet.
Which means she’s either been going through my dirty laundry and the bathroom trash, or she’s got a drug dog level sense of smell, but for embryos.
Or Anya told her.I hate that thought, but I can’t put it out of my mind. That woman’s hated me since day one. What if she’s been slipping Kira information all along?
Whatever the case, it’s creepy as hell. What does she even care if Petyr knocks me up, anyway? Why is she so invested in what goes on inside my womb? Is she running for Congress or something?
Nausea surges through me, mixing with rage. For the invasion of privacy, the utter lack of respect, and the poisonous pleasure plastered all across her pretty face.
I stride across the room and stare her down. Her glass clinks against my necklace. For a second—only a second—she flinches, as if she’s afraid her savage sister-in-law plucked from the slums will claw her eyes out.
Good.Let her think that.
