I scroll back.
The night at the loft. The celebration.
Four weeks ago.
I scroll back further.
The night in the bunker. The "survival" sex.
Five weeks ago.
My period is late. Not just a few days. Weeks.
I stare at the screen, the numbers blurring.
"No," I whisper.
It’s impossible. It’s stress. It’s the trauma of killing a man. It’s the adrenaline crash after months of living on the edge of a knife. My body is just regulating itself.
But deep down, in the primal part of my brain that learned to survive Silas Vane, I know.
I remember the way he touched me. The way he filled me. The way he refused to pull out, ever, claiming that he wanted to leave his mark on every part of me.
I want to be the only thing in your world,he said.
I close my eyes.
If I am pregnant...
The thought creates a fissure of terror in my chest so wide I almost fall into it.
Silas is not a father. He is a king. He is a warlord. He is a man who chains his wife to the bed and tracks her heartbeat via satellite. He is possessive to the point of madness. He doesn't share.
Would he want a child?
Or would he see a baby as a rival? A distraction? A threat to his absolute monopoly on my attention?
Or worse... would he love it?
Would he love a child the way he loves me? With cages and trackers and violence? Would he raise our son to be a monster? Would he raise our daughter to be prey?
The panic spikes.
95 BPM.
I need to know. I can't live in this limbo of suspicion. I need proof.
But how?
I can't ask Luca to buy a test; he reports to Silas. I can't order one on Amazon; Silas checks the packages. I can't use my credit card; Silas sees the transaction alerts instantly.
I need cash. And I need a window of time.
I look at the clock. 11:00 AM.
Silas is in a meeting with the zoning board until 1:00 PM.
I run to the bedroom. I go to the safe in the closet—the one hethinksI don't know the combination to. I watched him punch itin three months ago from the reflection in the mirror.12-05-88.His birthday. Narcissist.
