I close my eyes. Breathe through the panic crawling up my throat.
Two weeks without him.
Two weeks in this penthouse with the boys, but not him.
Two weeks of wondering if he’s safe. If he’s coming back.
“Hey.” His voice is softer now. “Look at me.”
I open my eyes.
He’s watching me. Steady. Certain.
“I’m coming back,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His hand moves to my stomach again. “I’m not missing this.”
Tears prick my eyes. Stupid hormones.
“Promise me,” I whisper.
“I promise.”
“Say it again.”
His mouth curves slightly. “I promise,malyshka. I’m coming back. To you. To this.”
He presses his palm flat against where our baby is growing. Too small to feel. But there.
I nod. Swallow the lump in my throat.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We lie there. His hand on my stomach. My hand on his chest. Breathing each other in.
Then I say, “You know what’s really unfair?”
“What?”
“You get to leave for two weeks.” I glance down at the very obvious tent in the sheets. “And I have to stay here. With that image in my head.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. Low and rough and so damn beautiful it hurts.
“You’re evil,” he says.
“I learned from the best.”
His eyes flash. “Two weeks, Mary.”
“I know.”
“The second Dr. Vera clears you—”
“I know.”
