She sighs, the sound full of affection but also resignation. “Fine, but only because I want to know everything’s okay too.”
I don’t take my eyes off her as I make the call. She’s washed out, exhausted and the most beautiful she’s ever looked. She’s carrying my child.
My seed.
Me.
Fuck.
I stand slowly. The balcony is secure—I made damn sure of that when we bought the place—but right now, it feels exposed. Dangerous in a way never has before.
My neck prickles with awareness.
I hold my hands out. “Let’s go inside.”
Mia opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then decides it’s not a battle worth fighting. She takes my hands, small and delicate in mine. Was she always this fragile? Why does she look different?
I pull her gently to her feet, my arms wrapping around her the second she sways. My nose buries in her hair, holding her up. I can smell her shampoo. Strawberries this time. She rotates the scent, but it’s her.
I want to be inside her. Loving her. Painting her thighs in me, but not while she’s suffering.
“Try to relax,” she murmurs against my shirt.
I can’t. Not when it comes to her. One second of distraction is all it takes for everything to go to hell. Money brought us comfort, but not safety. She was always a target, but once the world finds out she’s carrying my child?
That target on her back grows.
I’ll move heaven and earth before I let anything touch her.
She squeals when I lift her. Her arms loop around my neck, warm and soft. “I can walk,” she protests, even though her exhaustion bleeds into her voice.
“I know.” I don’t let her down. I carry her into the apartment and gently lower her onto the couch. I brush her hair off her face. “Don’t move. I’ll make you food before the doctor gets here.”
“What if I’m not hungry?” she says, just a push to test me.
I kiss her. “Then I’ll bring you something every hour until you are.”
Mia’s mouth opens. Then closes again. “You’re… insane.”
I brush my lips over her temple. “Only for you.”
I call Dr. Patel’s office, and once I hang up, I make Mia toast. If I had my way, she’d eat a full meal, but I’d rather she keep it down.
I butter to the edge, a little jelly scraped over the top—just how she likes it. I grab a bottle of water, too.
She blinks slowly, her eyes heavy when I sit next to her. It’s like she’s dragging her body through wet cement.
“Here.” I hand her the plate and her nose wrinkles.
“I’m not sure I can eat it, Jensen. My stomach’s doing gymnastics.”
“I know, baby.” I tuck a blanket around her legs. “Just try a little.”
I watch as she lifts the toast and takes a tentative bite. It’s torture how slowly she chews, like her body’s seconds from mutiny. My jaw clenches. I hate that she feels sick. That she can’t eat. She needs fuel to survive, to grow what I put inside her. I didn’t think about this part when I was obsessed with getting her pregnant.
I press my hand to her belly, needing to touch her. To feel her.
Under my hand is the start of everything. Our blood. Our legacy. The tiny seed of our family growing inside the woman I fucking worship.
