Fae #2
The muscles in my stomach tighten under the weight of their eyes, my bladder locks as if it understands.
I don’t need to look at Longstaff to know his gaze hasn’t left me.
My breathing begins to pick up despite my best efforts to control it.
Of course it would be like this. My body choosing this moment to betray me again.
I close my eyes and focus on the simple act of breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
Eventually, the pressure in my bladder wins.
A thin stream finally breaks the silence and the sound of it hitting the plastic cup echoes through the bathroom.
Each drop is a humiliating reminder of exactly how powerless I am right now.
When I finally force myself to open my eyes again, Longstaff is standing exactly where he was before.
Satisfaction sits in his eyes openly as his lips curl at the edges of his mouth like he’s just witnessed something deeply entertaining.
I look away from him. Once the cup is full enough, I pull my shorts back up with stiff fingers and stand.
The sample feels strangely heavy in my hand as I carry it back into the bedroom.
Dr Harrow is already pulling on a pair of gloves. The latex snaps softly as he takes the sample from me. From a small case, he retrieves a testing strip and dips it into the liquid before setting it down on a sterile pad beside the tray. He leaves it there to develop before turning back toward me.
“You can sit down,” he says softly.
I don’t argue. The fight seems to have drained out of me as my body moves on auto pilot and I lower myself back into the seat.
Dr Harrow opens his bag again and begins laying out more supplies.
An elastic band appears in his hands and before I can react, he loops it around my upper arm, pulling it tight enough that the pressure in my veins shifts beneath my skin.
“Relax your arm,” he murmurs.
I stare past him instead of answering.
His fingers press against the inside of my elbow as he searches for a vein.
When he finds it, the needle slides into my skin with a small, sharp pinch.
Compared to everything else my body has endured over the last few weeks; the sting barely registers.
One vial fills quickly with dark red. Then another.
The plastic tubes fill steadily before he swaps them out and finally withdraws the needle and presses a square of gauze against the puncture.
By the time he turns back toward the tray, the testing strip has finished developing. He studies it for only a second but I study him for what feels like a lifetime. I lick my cracked lips as he looks at me and then to Longstaff.
“She’s pregnant,” he says calmly. “I will run some more tests from her blood.”
“How far along?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“And paternity?”
Their voices continue as they start discussing timelines and possibilities with the same detached tone men might use when negotiating a business deal. The words drift in and out of my hearing like they’re travelling through water instead of air.
Pregnant.
The room begins to feel strangely distant, the edges of it blurring slightly as if the walls have shifted a few inches further away.
The chandelier light seems too bright, the marble too white, the air in my lungs suddenly thinner than it was a moment ago.
My heartbeat climbs steadily higher until I can feel it pulsing in my throat, each beat is loud enough to drown out the murmur of the men.
My stomach twists as my thoughts begin to chase themselves in tightening circles.
I’ve never wanted children.
I’ve spent years building a version of myself that was too sharp, too difficult, too independent for anyone to ever try to cage it that way.
The thought of being someone’s mother was never part of that future.
If anything, I’ve always been quietly convinced I’d be terrible at it. I don’t know how to nurture things.
I only know how to survive.
I only know how to fight.
I know how to harden myself until the world stops finding places to stick its knives.
None of that sounds like the kind of person who should be responsible for a child.
The soft snap of the doctor closing his bag makes me flinch as the sound brings me back into the room.
I look up just in time to see him straighten and incline his head politely toward Longstaff, as though the last fifteen minutes haven’t just changed my life.
“I’ll call when I have the results,” Doctor Harrow states, moving towards the door.
I’m not sure if it’s to me or Longstaff but I’m almost desperate to find out who the father is, so I welcome it. The door closes behind him. Longstaff turns toward me and I make the mistake of looking at him to see he is smiling.
It isn’t warm. It isn’t proud. It isn’t anything close to the kind of smile someone might give when they’ve just learned a child is on the way.
What spreads across his face instead is satisfaction and goose pimples ripple across my skin.
Something about the expression feels deeply wrong.
His gaze drops to my stomach and lingers there with open interest, and the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl.
My hand flies up to cover my mouth as another violent wave of nausea crashes through my stomach.
My body folds forward in the chair whilst I fight to keep whatever dignity I still have left, forcing myself to swallow it down.
My fingers drift slowly toward my stomach, hovering there before I realise what I’m doing.
The gesture sends a cold ripple of panic through my chest because the realisation arrives all at once.
There is something alive inside me.
Not a possibility or a theory.
A living, breathing person.
My breath catches halfway into my lungs as the thought settles heavy and terrifyingly real in my chest. For all the fear twisting through me about whose child it might be, one thing becomes painfully clear.
Whatever is growing inside me now depends entirely on me to survive, and whether I’m ready to be a mother or not suddenly stops mattering.
The instinct rises up stronger than the panic clawing at my ribs.
I need to protect it.
“Well,” he says at last, breaking the silence. “You’ve made yourself useful after all.”
The words land like a slap. I flinch and my fingers curl over my abdomen in a reflex so quick I don’t even realise I’ve done it until it’s too late.
“Ah,” his smile widens. “Protective already.”
“I’m not your breeding programme!” I snap.
“Of course not,” he replies mildly. “You’re Roman’s.”
The casual way he says it sends another shiver down my spine, and I have to bite down hard on the inside of my lip to stop the scream clawing its way up my throat.
All I can do is stare at him as the fear and anxiety that had been choking me moments ago begin to burn away into something far hotter and far more dangerous.
Rage creeps in slowly, flooding through the cracks the panic left behind until it fills my chest completely.
Rage at him. Rage at the childhood that built men like him.
Rage at the situation that has left me chained in his bedroom carrying a child he already thinks he owns.
Longstaff opens his mouth again but the sound of his phone ringing cuts cleanly through the room before he can speak. The vibration makes both of us pause. He glances down at the screen in his hand and his expression shifts. Then, slowly, he turns the screen outward toward me.
Roman.
The name glowing across the screen knocks the air straight out of my lungs.
My heart slams against my ribs as hope surges through me.
My mind scrambles for a way to warn him, to say something, anything, that might let him know where I am but I don’t even get the chance to open my mouth.
Longstaff’s free hand slips calmly into his jacket pocket and he pulls out a gun.
It’s casual, like he’s retrieving a pen instead of a weapon.
Then the barrel lifts and settles directly in line with my stomach.
He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes remain on the phone screen as it continues to ring and his finger hovers above the answer button whilst the gun presses slightly closer.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he murmurs quietly as his gaze flicks down to my stomach. “Or else.”
“Son,” he says smoothly. “How can I help?”