Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I move closer without thinking.
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The sheets are cool under my palms. She stirs slightly, but then relaxes again, so peaceful in her sleep. I envy her for that.
She needs the extra strength. Her only job right now is to heal, and then to take care of herself so our child can grow. I can take care of the rest.
My eyes drift to her stomach without my permission. I can’t stop marveling at the thought that my kid is in there. There’s nothing visible yet. Her stomach is still completely flat. I think back to that night in the kitchen. It wasn’t so long ago. Whatever’s growing inside her is still so small and so fragile that it can’t exist without us doing everything we can to help it grow.
I lean forward slightly and adjust the blanket so it covers her more fully. It’s a small gesture, but it’s the only thing I’m able to do to help her right now. My role in this is minimal. The only way I can support my child is to support her. Her pride is the only thing standing in the way of that.
I shake my head and carefully rest my hand on her stomach, above the blanket.
It’s silly, I know, but it’s like I feel a magnetic pull to the life inside of her. My hand feels warmer there.
I lower my voice, even though she’s too knocked out to hear me.
“I’m going to protect our family,” I nearly whisper. “No matter what it costs me.”
18
ANYA
I’m sitting up in bed with a pillow wedged behind me, trying to find a position that hurts less than the others. Breathing is still a labor, so any advantage I can take, I do. To make matters worse, my morning sickness has become relentless. I have to keep a trash can next to the bed because I don’t usually have enough energy to run to the bathroom every morning and the heaving is hell on my cracked ribs.
The nurse has been kind enough to empty the trash can without a word every day. She may not be the warmest person I’ve ever met, but she’s a saint.
I shift my weight carefully and still manage to catch a sharp pain under my ribcage that takes my breath away. I grit my teeth and stay still until the pain goes away. This is my reality now. Even my breaths require thought.
Just as I’m starting to feel comfortable, I hear a flurry of activity breaking out downstairs.
It starts with voices, low and clipped, then quick movement through the house, then the front door opening and closing quickly. Something heavy scrapes across stone in the entryway, followed by a second scrape, longer this time, like something is being dragged.
My stomach tightens, and it has nothing to do with the morning sickness. Something is very, very wrong. I stand slowly, using the wall for balance. The pain spikes again when I straighten fully, and I breathe through it in short, shallow pulls until my vision clears. I step into the hallway.
The guard outside my door straightens immediately.
“You need to stay in bed, miss,” he says, like he thinks he actually has any authority over me.
“I’m going,” I answer, keeping my voice level.
He hesitates just long enough for me to move past him. He follows anyway, close behind me like a shadow. I take the stairs carefully, one step at a time.
The entryway is crowded when I finally reach the bottom. Sergei is there, along with two men I recognize from the convoy. Their posture is tight and controlled. Viktor stands near the front door with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, gaze fixed on a long wooden crate sitting on the tile.
The crate is reinforced with metal corners. It looks expensive. There’s an envelope nailed to the top, sealed with wax. I recognize the crest immediately.
Viktor is standing closest to it, which means no one else is going to touch it unless he tells them to. Sergei is to his left, arms folded, face tight. Two of Viktor’s men stand near the door with their hands close to their jackets, eyes moving between the crate and the street beyond the glass. No one is speaking. No one is moving. The silence makes my skin prickle.
Viktor crouches and studies the envelope nailed to the top. He doesn’t touch the wax seal with his bare hand, which tells me he thinks it’s a trap. He’s considering explosives, powder, poison, anything Mikhail could possibly get into this house.
He slices the envelope open with a knife and pulls out a single card. Even from here I can tell the paper is thick and expensive. His eyes move over the words and his frown deepens. His expression stays controlled, but I see the muscle in his jaw jump. Sergei watches him closely.