I just have a feeling, and my gut is usually correct. Something tells me I’m on someone’s radar. Whether it’s the Ivanovs or someone else entirely, I don’t know.
I lie in bed, phone on my chest. Before I know it, I’m asleep. Just like every night since our encounter, my last thoughts are of him, that wicked smirk on his face right before he kissed me.
CHAPTER 5
ASTRID
Five weeks later…
The nausea wakes me before the sun does.
I bolt upright in the hotel bed, hand clapped over my mouth, heart racing like I’ve been yanked out of a nightmare. For a second, I think maybe I’m dreaming—until my stomach twists again.
I make it to the bathroom just in time. The tiles are cold beneath my knees as I brace one hand against the wall and dry-heave into the toilet. My hair sticks to the back of my neck, sweat beading at my temples.
Jesus.
I sit there for a long moment after, gasping and shaking, trying to convince myself it’s the cheese. Ithasto be the cheese. The creamy Camembert from a little bistro in the Marais last night. Or maybe it’s my nerves. I’ve barely slept in three days, and my brain is a constant hum of old files, conspiracy theories, and dead parents.
I don’t feel sick, I just feel…off.
My breasts are sore, I’ve had a headache for three days, and yesterday I started crying in the middle of eating a croissant.
Wait. A. Minute.
My stomach drops. I reach for my phone and open my period tracking app.
Two weeks late.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no…”
But even as I say the words, my body already knows the truth.
It wasone time.A one-time, no-name, mile-high fantasy come to life.
I drag myself up on shaky legs and reach for the small zippered pouch at the bottom of my toiletry bag. I packed it “just in case,” thinking it would stay tucked away forever, like emergency ibuprofen or pepper spray.
I rip it open, read the instructions three times, then pee on the stick and set it on the counter, backing away from it like it might explode. I set a timer for three minutes. I wash my hands. Splash cold water on my face. Pace back and forth.
Don’t look. Just breathe.
I glance at myself in the mirror. I look pale, dark circles under my eyes.
A flash of memory crashes into me before I can block it—his hands on my waist, his breath on my neck, the way he looked at me like he already knew my body better than I did. The thrust of his hips, his voice in my ear, telling me to come for him.
My breath catches.
I can stillfeelhim, like I’ve been walking around with his imprint burned into my skin. And now, maybe, his DNA stitched into my cells.
The timer dings. I turn toward the test.
Two lines. Bold and unmistakable,unforgiving.
Positive. No room for misinterpretation. No room for denial.
I back away a step. Then another. The floor might as well fall out from under me.
My body sits down before my brain tells it to. I hit the cool tile hard, knees folded, test still clutched in my hand like it might vanish if I squeeze hard enough.
