“I’m almost there,dorogoya.” Ransome’s voice has never sounded sweeter, all softness and concern. Like he’s a different man entirely. “I’m almost there.”
I let the sound soothe me through the next wave of pain.
The next hour is a blur as Ransome rushes me to the ER. I can hear him questioning everyone, demanding answers, even talking in Russian to one of the doctors—he really does have connections everywhere—as the nurses move around me. They’re taking vitals, running a blood panel, running an IV and prepping an ultrasound. It’s a lot.
And meanwhile, I’m in pain. So much pain.
The second the doctor steps back from me, Ransome is at his heels. “So? What is it?!”
“Well, there’s good news and bad news.”
I think Ransome might just rip his dick off. “Tell me,” he snarls, “what’s wrong with her.”
“The good news is, they’re not real contractions.”
“I was having contractions?” I ask, placing my hand on my belly.
“Braxton-Hicks. Also known as false labor. It’s common in the third trimester, but can still be painful.”
“God.” I let my head fall back onto the pillow, halfway between relieved and terrified. “If that’s the fake version, I can’t imagine how badly the real ones will suck.”
The doctor smiles again. He must not value his life very much. Ransome has probably killed for less.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he says. “But for now, we have you on a couple medications that should preventthe contractions from escalating as well as help with pain. And the pain you’re feeling is also due to the baby shifting positions. He’s a healthy boy, and he’s got his shoulder resting right against your sciatic nerve. We can coax him away from it, and that should help a lot.”
“So she’s not in any immediate danger?” Ransome asks, his questions like bullets.
“No,” the doctor says. “Though to be honest, your blood pressure is a little high. Higher than I would like.”
Of course it is.Nothing like a labor scare and hallucinating the literal Slenderman out the window to get a girl’s blood pumping.
“What can we do about that?” Ransome asks.
“Less stress,” the doctor says.
“So bed rest?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. If anything, light activity, things Amara enjoys, would actually be healthier. Things that bring her joy or peace. Things that help the time pass. Things that stimulate the mind. That’s what I would recommend.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “And if the baby decides to punch you in the nerves again, take a warm bath, get him to relax, and see if you can coax him into another position. We will keep you overnight just to be safe, but overall, you’re going to be fine. Baby too.”
With that, the doctor leaves us. The room is quiet other than the beeping of the machines I’m still hooked to. I lean back in the bed, exhausted but grateful to be free of pain. Although I do feel kind of silly.
“Braxton-Hicks,” I repeat, rubbing my belly softly.
Ransome, however, is less than relaxed. He shoves himself away from his chair and paces the room. “This would have never happened if I hadn’t booked that massage,” he snaps.
“I don’t know if that’s true. It’s not like she touched my belly.”
“And you didn’t go straight home. I know you were hungry, but Ivan could have ordered food for you. You should have gone straight home. You need to rest. Avoid overstimulation.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m sorry. Did you not hear anything the doctor just said? Bed rest is not the answer. I amunderstimulated, Ransome. Jesus. I went from a very hectic and busy life to stagnant. Shut up in a house that feels more like a prison than a home.”
Ransome whirls around to face me. “Is my estate not good enough for you?”
“Not when I am condemned there all by myself, no! Buckingham Palace wouldn’t be good enough if I was alone! I need to be around people. Friends. To have a job. To not be arguing with you when the doctor literally just said that I need more going on in my life!”
Ransome opens his mouth to say something and then snaps it shut. “No. You know what, you’re right. No more fighting.”
“Thank you,” I say, though I am still feeling pretty salty.
