If Svetlana is pregnant, then it could be…
Mine.
I close the laptop and grab my keys. As long as wherever she is going is at least the convenience store and back, I can get into her room and out again before she returns, if I drive fast. It’s reckless and not the smartest thing to do, but I’ve made nothing but reckless decisions since I saw Svetlana in that cell. Now,after seeing those pregnancy tests, it doesn’t seem like the time to suddenlystopbeing reckless.
I park in the lot behind the motel, out of sight of the street. The lock on her door is a joke, as usual, and I have it open in seconds with the use of a credit card.
The room itself makes me wince—it’s clear she’s been too sick to take care of herself, and I’m sure housekeeping here isn’t exactly up to snuff. The room smells musty, and the bed is unmade, the sheets tangled like she's been sleeping badly. There’s a half-eaten bowl of soup sitting in the microwave, and opened bottles of water and Gatorade. A few articles of clothing are draped over the single chair, the same clothes I've seen her wear on rotation because she doesn't have anything else.
She's barely surviving.
The thought makes something twist in my chest. She shouldn't be living like this. She should be somewhere safe, somewhere comfortable. Somewhere I can take care of her.
I head straight for the bathroom. There, lying in the trash can, are three used pregnancy tests.
And every one of them clearly readspositive. Two pink lines, on all three, clear as day.
For a moment, I just stare at them. My brain struggles to process what I'm seeing, to make sense of it. I pick one of them up, holding it carefully as if it might go off like a bomb.
Svetlana is pregnant.
My hand starts to shake. I set the test back down exactly where I found it, but I can't look away from it. The timeline crashes through my mind like a freight train. She was held in that compound for months. They used her. Hurt her. She made it clear they didn’t bother with precautions. If she's pregnant, it could be from one of them. From one of those animals who treated her like she belonged to them.
The thought makes rage burn through me, hot and vicious. If it's theirs—if one of those bastards put a child in her?—
But it could also be mine.
The memory of the safe house crashes through me, so intense that I have to grip the side of the sink to stay steady.Icame inside of her, too, like I had every right to, as if she belonged to me. I couldn't stop myself, couldn't pull away, couldn't do anything but claim her completely. I apologized after, when I realized what I’d done, but that doesn’t change what happened.
If she's pregnant, there's a chance that it's mine. My child.
I squeeze the edge of the sink, my knuckles going white. The possessiveness that's been simmering in my chest for weeks explodes into something I can't control. It's not just want anymore. It's not just an obsession. It's something primal, something that reaches into the deepest part of me and takes hold.
She's mine. She's been mine since the moment I saw her in that cell. I saved her. I got her out. I brought her back here.
I fucked her, came inside of her,madeher mine.
And now she's carrying my child.
Maybe.
My mind can’t even process the possibility of it being anything else. And right now, it doesn’t even feel like it matters. Even if it's not biologically mine, she's still mine. The baby is mine. I've already claimed her, already decided that she belongs to me. This just makes it undeniable.
I can't leave her out here, let her struggle alone in this shithole motel, barely scraping by. She needs me—my protection, my resources, my strength.
She needs to be with me.
I can keep her safe. I can make sure she eats properly, sleeps properly, has everything she needs.
I can make sure that no one can take her away.
I leave the test where it is and back out of the bathroom, my mind racing. I need to think, and make a plan. I can't just grab her off the street—she'll fight and scream, and she'll hate me even more than she already does. I need to convince her—make her see that this is the right choice. That I can give her everything she needs.
I lock the door behind me and return to my car, pulling up the camera feed on my phone. She's not back yet. I have time.
But time for what? What am I going to say to her? How do I explain that I know about the pregnancy, that I've been watching her, that I've been in her room?
I can't. There's no way to explain that without sending her into a panic—and rightfully so, considering what she’s been through.
