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)
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask her warily.
She turns to look back at me with a smirk on her face.
“I’m hungry,” she says. “I think I’m making food.”
“Your nurse will bring you whatever you want,” I remind her. “Or one of the guards. Literally anyone in this house will cater to your every whim.”
“My only ‘whim’ at the moment is to do something for myself,” she says in a challenging tone. “I’m tired of being cooped up in bed. At some point, exercise is better than rest.”
“When you’re cleared by a medical professional,” I agree. “Have you been cleared?’
She turns back to the stove and shrugs.
“I cleared myself.”
I roll my eyes and walk over to her. If she insists on being independent, she needs to understand that sometimes independence means accepting help.
“What are you doing?” she asks, eyeing me warily as I grab an apron and put it on over my suit.
“I’m going to be your sous chef.” I wink at her. “I’ll bring you whatever ingredients you want so you can cook them yourself. It’s a compromise.”
She sighs heavily and shakes her head. I think she’s going to refuse my help, but she just looks over at me and says, “Can you slice up an onion?”
A few minutes later, she’s made a simple omelet with vegetables and cheese. It’s not much, but I imagine that it tastes like freedom to her, after being cooped up in bed all week. I take her plate so she can start her slow shuffle to the table. She’s breathing hard and still winces when she moves the wrong way.
“Have you taken your meds today?” I ask her sternly.
“I don’t need them,” she argues. “I’m doing fine.”
“Tell that to your face,” I answer, and she flips me the bird.
“You would do the same thing,” she argues. “We aren’t porcelain dolls. When we break, we pick up the pieces and keep moving.”
“The difference is, I’m not pregnant,” I remind her.
“Wouldn’t that be a modern medical marvel?” she grumbles. “I’d be more than happy to let you carry this child for nine months with two cracked ribs.”
She finally makes it to the table and, naturally, refuses my help to sit down. She’s still moving slowly, but she’s doing it on her own terms. That’s important to her. In some ways, that’s the only control she has over her life right now, and I’m not going to deny her of that.
“How are you really feeling? Abou the baby?” I ask, suddenly feeling nervous.
We haven’t talked about it much. There was just the brief conversation at the clinic, but I’m a total fish out of water. Planning war? Easy. Talking about pregnancy? Terrifying.
“I think it’s fine.” She shrugs. “I’m sick every morning, which is apparently normal. I’m nauseous all the time, but I feel much worse if I don’t eat anything. I have to pee like crazy, and—”
“That’s okay,” I say, putting up my hand. “I don’t need every gory detail.”
“You did ask,” she answers with a smirk. “You look like you’re going to throw up. Will the great Viktor Kovalev be toppled by talk of bodily functions?”
“It’s better than the alternative.” I shrug casually.
Neither of us speak for a moment, because we know what’s waiting on the other side of that discussion. Mikhail isn’t going to stop until he has Anya back, and I’m never going to let that happen. There will be a lot of bloodshed and pain to get there. She’s worth it, though. Our family is worth it.
“Do you ever think about what will happen if we lose this war?” she asks quietly, picking at her food.
“No,” I say automatically. “That isn’t an option. Losing you and the baby is not an option. We will win because we have to.”
She looks up and I notice her eyes are a little glassy, but I know she’ll never let herself cry in front of me. That would require vulnerability, and she isn’t going to offer me that. Not ever.
“Before I found out about the baby, I was having nightmares,” she admits softly. “About how it was with him. What he put me through.”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say, reaching out and placing my hand on top of hers. “Not if you don’t want to. I knew it was bad. You fought off three men just to get away from him.”
She nods, and she doesn’t shake off my hand. Instead, she surprises me by turning her own hand over and linking her fingers through mine.
“The nurse said that my bad heartburn means our baby is going to have a lot of hair,” she says, changing the subject.
My heart leaps in my chest. Our baby.
“That’s probably my fault.” I smile. “Kovalevs are notoriously hairy.”
She nearly spits out her drink at that. It’s nice to see her laugh.