I retreat to the small break room, leaning against the cool metal of the filing cabinet. My hand goes to my stomach. Nausea rolls in waves now.
I know what this is. My period is three weeks late. My breasts feel heavy, aching every time Logan’s rough hands brush them. The smell of coffee brewing in the front makes my mouth water in the worst way.
I reach into my tote bag, fingers brushing against the small, rectangular box I bought two towns over. I couldn't buy it here. Gossip in Pine Valley travels faster than a rockslide.
I slip into the tiny employee bathroom and lock the door. Hands shake as I unwrap the box.
Three minutes.
I sit on the closed toilet lid, staring at the white plastic stick on the sink counter. My pulse hammers against my ribs.
Pregnant.
A baby. A Gunnar baby.
Panic flares. Not because I don't want it—I want it so much it aches—but because of the implications. It ties me irrevocably to this mountain. To club wars, territory disputes, and men who solve problems with violence.
But then I think of Logan. The way he checks locks three times every night. The way he holds me like I’m made of glass. He is a monster to the world, but to us? A fortress.
I look at the stick.
Two solid, dark pink lines.
A sob catches in my throat. I press my hand to my mouth.
The doorknob rattles.
"Savannah." Logan’s voice presses right against the wood. "Open the door."
I jump, knocking the box off my lap. "I'm busy, Logan!"
"You've been in there ten minutes. I can hear your pulse from out here." His tone drops an octave. "Are you hurt? Is there blood?"
"No! No blood."
"Open it. Or I take the door off the hinges."
He’s never bluffed a day in his life.
I stand, legs trembling, and unlock the door.
It swings open instantly. Logan fills the frame, chest heaving, eyes wild. He scans me for injuries. Finding me intact, some tension leaves his shoulders, but his gaze remains intense.
"What is it?" He steps inside and closes the door, locking us in the cramped space. "You're shaking."
I can't speak. I gesture toward the sink.
Logan frowns. He looks at the counter. He sees the stick.
Silence deafens us. I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion.
Slowly, Logan reaches out. His massive hand, scarred from fights, picks up the plastic. He brings it closer, dark eyes narrowing.
Then, he looks at me.
Pure, feral triumph blazes in his eyes.
A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face, changing his features from brooding to something devastatingly handsome.
