Page 40 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“I’m not hungry.”

His eyes stay on me. “You are.”

I push up too fast, and the floor tilts. I make it to the bathroom, slam the door, lock it, and barely reach the sink before I’m sick.

A second later, his fist hits the wood.

“Elena,” he calls.

I close my eyes, throat burning.

Damn it. He heard.

12

ELENA

Adeep, restful sleep drops on me all at once and keeps me down, and when I wake before dawn I come up fast, already tense, already bracing. Maksim’s face comes into my head, the way he stood outside my bathroom door and said, “Are you sick, Elena?”

I keep my eyes shut and pull the pillow over my head, then drag the blanket up over my face and try to settle myself before the thoughts get out of control.

I managed to convince him last night that it was something I ate from the bakery and that I was fine. He only said, “Then I’ll send a maid to your room.”

I press a hand over my stomach and breathe slowly, and in my head I keep saying the same thing. I’m okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.

It doesn’t stick.

My mind fills right back up. Maksim. The house. The doctor I have to see. Then my thoughts veer to how men talk around me now, as if my body is already halfway into some future they’ve all agreed on without me.

The baby turns every thought heavier, because I’m not just waking up inside this life anymore. I’m bringing someone else into it, and every time that lands cleanly, it hits me all over again.

By the time I throw the blanket back, staying in bed feels worse than getting up. The floor is cold under my feet as I cross the room. I grab the robe hanging by the wardrobe, pull it on over my nightgown, and tie it tightly. Then I shove my sleeves up and head out before I can talk myself into crawling back under the covers for another useless shot at sleep.

The hall is still dim, and the house is running on lamps and routine at this hour. I take the stairs slowly, one hand skimming the rail, and when I reach the ground floor, I can feel the draft coming in from the east side of the house. That wakes me up faster than anything else has.

I make my way to the morning room because it’s the one place in this house that doesn’t feel crowded by other people’s decisions. A guard stands by the door, and he straightens when he sees me.

“Morning,” he says.

I nod and keep walking, hoping he doesn’t try to talk to me because I’m not up for that right now.

His mouth twitches, and he steps aside.

The room opens around me in pale stone, long glass, and the first weak edge of morning beyond the trees. I find one of the mats stacked near the wall, carry it to the window, and set it down. Then I sit cross-legged, rest my hands on my thighs, and close my eyes.

I breathe in through my nose and let it out slower through my mouth. I do it again. Then again.

My thoughts still come, but they stop slamming into each other. They line up. Maksim. The estate. Sergei. The baby. Fear still sits there, but it stops running every breath.

I stay like that until my legs start to tingle and a thin line of silver shows at the glass, then spreads into a pale wash across the floor.

When I get up, I feel steadier, more inside my body.

The kitchen is already awake by the time I get there. Mrs. Wentworth stands at the counter with her glasses low on her nose, directing one of the staff with the kind of authority that doesn’t need volume.

She looks over as I step in. “You’re up early.”

“I could say the same about you,” I say, smiling.