“You’re pregnant,” I say.
“I was going to tell you when you came home.”
I nod once because I believe her.
That’s the terrible thing. I believe her completely, and it makes the fear worse. This woman holds every piece of my heart.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I look at her. “No.”
Her eyes fill. “I left the house. I should have told you. I should have trusted you.”
“Yes,” I say.
She flinches.
I hate that too, but I will not lie to her.
“You should have trusted me,” I continue. “And I should have made my house feel less like a prison.”
Her tears spill then. Quietly.
She looks away, but I catch her face gently and turn it back to me.
“Don’t hide from me, baby.”
“I was scared,” she says. “Of Dmitri. Of my father dying. Of telling you about the baby. Of what you would do.”
“I know.”
“And then I heard you were going to the Volkov house, and I thought…” Her voice breaks. “I thought if I didn’t come, you would disappear into it. Not die, maybe. Something worse.”
My thumb moves over her cheek.
She knows me too well.
“You stopped me.”
Her hand tightens over mine. “Good.”
A sound leaves me, low and uneven.
Then her eyes search mine. “Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
She closes her eyes.
I lean closer. “I’m angry that you were hurt. I’m angry that you went alone. I’m angry that for several hours I thought the only part of you left to me was a ring in my pocket.”
Her eyes open again.
I take her hand and bring it to my chest, over the pocket where I still carry the ring.
“But I’m not angry that you are alive,” I say. “I’m not angry that you came back to me.”
Her lips part.
