I shook my head.
“Why not?”
I blew out a shaky breath. “What if it’s positive?”
A beat passed before he murmured a soft, “It could be mine.”
I thought back to that morning of hopelessness, when I’d been so desperate to keep any piece of him that I let him spill his seed right where I shouldn’t.
If I was pregnant, yes, it could belong to him. But the timing was too close. I couldn’t know for sure, and we had no way to stop this from happening to me.
No surgeries. No meds.
The NAO wanted women to fulfill their reproductive duties regardless of the circumstances. I was just another casualty of their blithe cruelty.
“I don’t want to take it,” I said, loathing the tremor in my voice.
His hand made gentle circles on my back. “Just pee in a cup, Sophia.”
“No.”
“I’ll do the rest. All you have to do is pee.”
I turned accusing eyes on him. “Don’t make it easy.”
He pulled me into his arms and trailed velvety kisses down my cheek. “You aren’t alone,” he said before he reached my mouth. “I’m with you. Until I die.”
Irritated by their frequent appearances, I huffed at the tears that spilled. His mouth caught mine in a kiss deeper than any we’d shared since the incident. I dropped the packet to the floor in favor of throwing my arms around his neck.
The kiss was thorough, but careful. He made no advances. He asked for nothing more. He touched me like I was something precious, as if hurting me was sacrilege.
When he pulled away and handed me a cup, a full minute passed before I dredged up the courage to fill it. My bladder wouldn’t cooperate.
It didn’t want to know either.
But finally, I managed it.
After dropping the glass onto the counter beside the toilet, I fled the bathroom without a backward glance, taking the steep stairs two at a time. I dove under the covers of our bed, hiding in the dark. Several minutes later, his near-silent footstepsfollowed me. His weight sank into the mattress beside me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but my hand slid from beneath the covers and he took it.
“It’s negative.”
I sobbed.
Negative.
Absolute proof of my freedom.
The wounds on my back had closed and turned pink. The bruises had faded. My reproductive tract lived to see another day.
“Lucas?” I murmured from under the covers.
“Hmm?”
“I’m not fine.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
37
