Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
CHAPTER TWELVE
vik
Iwake up with a sudden, violent shift from a deep sleep to hyper-awareness hitting me like a physical blow. One second, I’m dead to the world, buried in the heavy, dreamless sleep that only comes with Romy by my side, and the next, my eyes are snapping open. The spot beside me is cold, the sheets crumpled and empty.
Then I hear her.
The muffled, agonizing sound of retching coming from the bathroom. I bold upright, my heart hammering against my chest like a trapped animal. The digital clock on the nightstand reads: 3:14PM.
Romy warned me, and it’s right on time. I’m pissed at myself at the harsh reminder she’s done this alone, and then add to the wave of guilt that sickens me, Christ, I really fucked up. I don’t have time to dwell on the asshole I’ve been; Romy needs me. I throw the sheets aside, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and spur into action. My hand instinctively reaches for my phone on the nightstand only to remember it’s in my pants that are in the living room somewhere. I’d have liked to look up what I can do to help, but since that’s not in the cards right now, I do one better and walk into the bathroom.
The sound of her distress grows louder when I push open the door. Romy is on her knees in front of the toilet, pale hands gripping the porcelain bowl, her shoulders shaking violently as another dry heave racks her small frame. Her hair is a tangled, wild mess, clinging to the damp sweat on the back of her neck. She looks so damn fragile, so fucking small, and there’s not a single fucking thing I can do to prevent this for her. Well, maybe not get her pregnant again, but even that thought has me pausing my thoughts. Because there’s nothing more I want in this world than little Romys running around.
I walk in silently and step over to the sink, grab a clean washcloth from the open shelving, turn on the cold water, and soak it. Once I wring it out, ensuring it’s cool but not dripping wet, I move to Romy’s side. I kneel on the hard tile beside her and carefully gather her hair, pulling the long strands away, and drape it on her neck. She flinches lightly at the contact, a low, exhausted groan escapes her lips, and she attempts to lean away, pushing a weak hand against my chest.
“Go away, Vik,” she whispers, raw and raspy. “Don’t look at me like this, please.”
“Not happening.” My voice leaves no room for argument, and even if she did try to bicker her way through this conversation, I still wouldn’t leave. There’s a glass on the counter near the sink and, without leaving her side, I fill it with water. “Here, rinse and spit.” She hesitates, then attempts to take it from my hand. I noticed the tremble in her hands, so instead of allowing her to do the work, I hold it for her while she does as I suggested.
“I think I’m done.” She leans back, and I support her with a quick maneuver. Once her breathing steadies a bit, I stand up, bend down, slip one arm securely beneath her knees and the other around her lower back, and I scoop her up bridal style. Romy doesn’t fight me, she’s too exhausted. She lets her head fall against my shoulder, her palm pressing into my chest as I carry her back into the bedroom, laying her down gently on the mattress and pulling the covers over her bare body as her head sinks into the pillow.
“Thank you.” She lets out a long, ragged exhale, eyes fluttering shut.
“Always. I’ll be right back.” I press a kiss to her forehead, watching over her for longer than I’m sure is necessary. Once I feel okay with leaving her, I move to the living room. Our clothes are still strewed everywhere, and it takes me a minute to sift through the chaos to find my boxers and phone. I go about picking up the pieces, folding my own and then hers, though technically, the shirt she had on is also mine. I slip into my briefs, snag my phone, and awaken the screen, bypassing a wall of unread text messages from my team. They can wait. The whole damn empire can pound sand for all I care right now. I open the browser and type with a fierce, impatient urgency and search for anything that will give her relief: How to help pregnancy afternoon sickness.
The results quickly load; I scan the bullet points, my eyes darting over medical jargon. Small, frequent meals, avoid having an empty stomach, and bland foods. I then zero in on the immediate remedies: crackers, carbonated soda such as ginger ale or Sprite. An honorable mention of plenty of rest, which I doubt she’s gotten enough of.