I freeze, the towel halfway to my face. “Pregnant? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, congratulations. The test results came back half an hour ago. Your blood sugar’s low, you’re over-exhausted, and…pregnant.”
The room starts to spin, and I clutch the sink for support.Pregnant?It can’t be. There must be a mistake.
The nurse’s voice fades into the background, but her last words echo in my head, growing louder and louder until they’re all I can hear.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
Pregnant?
Chapter 8
Luka
A few hours before
I’m standing with Patrick, but my eyes betray me, drifting over to Sophia. Damn it all to hell, she looks off. Pale.
Is she okay?
“Sophia!” Yulia’s shriek makes me snap to attention. My head whips around. Yulia’s face is a twisted mask of terror as she clings to Sophia, but it’s no use. Sophia’s falling, her face pale, and her eyes shut.
I’m moving before I know it, muscles working on autopilot. My arms reach out, and I catch Sophia just before she hits the ground. Yulia’s crying like her heart’s breaking. Dimitri’s there, picking her up.
“It’s okay, Yulia,” I grunt, feeling something twist in my gut. “Sophia’s gonna be fine. I am going to take her to the doctor.”
Yulia nods without question, her blind faith in me setting the guilt surging again.
Dimitri’s reaching for Sophia, concern etched on his face. “Hand her over, Luka.”
“No.” The word is harsh, and it’s out before I can stop it. “I’ve got her.”
Dimitri’s eyes narrow, and there’s a moment where I think he’s going to argue. But he backs down.
“I’ll handle Yulia,” Dimitri says. I nod. I am glad he seems to always know what I’m thinking.
I glance at Yulia, and she’s watching us, her face still streaked with tears. I smile at her, giving her the only comfort I can. I’ve got Sophia, and I’ll take care of her.
Because I have to.
Because I want to.
Because for some fucked-up reason, she’s too important to me.
I haul ass out of the toy shop with Sophia’s limp body cradled in my arms.
∞∞∞
Sitting In the doctor’s office now, that damn piece of paper clutched in my hand, everything grinds to a halt. Breathing, talking, thinking – it all stops. All I can see is that one word, printed so neatly, like it’s some sort of polite invitation: POSITIVE. It’s screaming at me, but all I can do is stare.
“Congratulations, Mr. Ivankov,” the doctor beams, her eyes crinkling at the corners as I catch a glimpse of her name tag – Dr. Sarah Johnson. She’s got those damn laugh lines like she’s spent a lifetime celebrating things like this.
“Your wife is pregnant. It’s wonderful news!”
I just stare at her, still unable to process it.
