Dagger adds, softer but worse, “If he runs, we hunt.”
The room goes still.
Mason exhales slowly. “We move in two hours.”
Chairs scrape back. Men stand. Weapons get checked. Cuts get straightened.
I stay seated for one extra second, staring at the floor plan burned into my memory. Third floor. North wing. Suite with blackout curtains. I picture her there. Breathing. Waiting. Not knowing how close we are.
I push to my feet. “I’m bringing her home,” I say, not to the room, not to Mason, not to anyone in particular. Just to the universe. And this time, the universe is going to damn well listen.
THIRTY-TWO
BRI
I’m kneelingon the cold tile floor of the hotel bathroom again, one hand braced against the porcelain, the other tangled in my hair as my head hangs over the toilet.
I retch, my stomach heaving violently, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep the sound in. The last thing I need is for him to hear this. The walls are thick, but not thick enough for the kind of noise my body wants to make.
My throat burns. My eyes water. I gag again, dry this time, my stomach twisting in on itself like it’s trying to turn me inside out.
I flush quickly, even though there’s barely anything there, just to cover the sound. Then I stay still, breathing through my nose, counting slow and quiet until the wave passes.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the sink when I finally lift my head. Pale. Drawn. Eyes a little too bright. I look like someone who hasn’t slept enough, who’s been under too much stress.
I look like someone hiding something.
This isn’t the first time. It’s not even the fifth. It’s every morning now, like my body has decided on a routine it doesn’t care to explain to me. I press my forehead briefly to the cool porcelain of the toilet and swallow hard, forcing everything back down.
I haven’t needed tampons. Or pads. Or anything.
That thought hits harder than the nausea.
Alexei provides everything I need before I ever ask. Clothes appear in the closet. Food arrives without me ordering it. Medication shows up on the nightstand if I so much as mention a headache. If I needed something like that, he would notice immediately.
But I haven’t.
And my period is never late.
Never.
I push myself up slowly, legs trembling, and rinse my mouth at the sink. I keep the water low, careful, quiet. I spit, then rinse again, scrubbing my tongue until the sour taste fades.
It’s been two months.
Two months since my last period.
My hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as the math starts running through my head even though I don’t want it to.
Blade and I weren’t careful. Not once. Not even a conversation about it. We were just… together. Like time was something we could outrun. Like the world wasn’t already sharpening knives around us.
The memory tightens my chest until it hurts.
I don’t know if I’m pregnant.
I don’t dare find out.
I won’t risk asking for a test. I won’t risk anything that might make Alexei curious, anything that confirms a truth I don’t know how to survive yet.
