8. Cora
8
CORA
I wake with a sharp gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs, my body twisted in damp sheets. Ivan again, holding me, fucking me, owning me.
I feel his eyes on me. I look up at the ceiling, half expecting to see him up there, clinging to the plaster like a vampire. Of course there’s nothing. Just darkness and my thoughts. He’s not here. I’m never going to see him again. I need to get over this.
I can still feel the roughness of his palms, the possessive grip of his fingers pressing into my hips, the way he growled my name.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts away as my alarm blares into life. So much for going back to sleep.
I shake my head, forcing my focus forward, planting my feet on the cold wooden floor as I cancel the alarm. I have work. I have a job to get to. I don’t have time for ghosts.
But the moment I stand, my stomach lurches. Not again.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, retching into the toilet. My stomach clenches violently, my entire body shuddering as I grip the porcelain.
The nausea eases after a moment, but the unease lingers. Two days in a row.
I brace myself against the sink, breathing heavily, my skin clammy. The bitter taste of bile coats my tongue. Maybe a stomach bug. Maybe stress. Maybe the fact I killed someone and don’t regret it.
I rinse my mouth, splash cold water onto my face, and force myself to move.
I throw on my work uniform. The shirt is a little tighter than I remember. My hands fumble as I button it up, irritation rising in my chest.
I’m rushing for the door when I trip over something.
A dull thud against the floor.
I look down, frowning.
The duffel bag. I’ve caught my toe around the strap, yanked it out from under the sofa on my way to the door.
I crouch down, cursing under my breath, reaching for the strap. I pull it too hard and trip, falling to the ground and ripping the strap at the same time.
Something gives.
A loose thread. A hidden seam tearing open.
And then—a glint of silver.
A small, metallic object skitters out from a hidden compartment, clinking softly against the floorboards.
My stomach twists again, but for an entirely different reason.
I pick up the device, turning it over in my fingers. A USB flash drive.
A chill races down my spine.
Is this why Darren was so desperate to catch me?
I glance at the time. I’m going to be late. I should leave it until tonight.
I grab my laptop and plug in the flash drive. The ancient screen hums to life eventually, the drive loading.
Encrypted. Of course. Gibberish and hashtags for file names, hundreds of them.
I rip the flash drive from the laptop like it’s on fire, my hands shaking. My pulse slams against my ribs as I shove it into my handbag, burying it beneath old receipts and hairgrips.
My mind races. I press a hand to my forehead, trying to steady my breathing.
I need to go to work.
I grab my coat, shove my arms into the sleeves, force myself toward the door. But the weight in my chest, the suffocating knowledge that I’m holding something dangerous, refuses to go away.
This is why he came after me. He was hiding it in the bathroom. I thought it was just money but it was this. Whatever the hell it is.
The city is brisk, the morning air crisp against my skin, but I barely feel it. I move quickly, weaving through the streets, my mind still tangled in the wreckage of what I just found.
I try to shake it off. Try to convince myself that it means nothing—that it has nothing to do with me.
I cross the street, my boots clicking against the sidewalk, my hands shoved deep into my coat pockets. The weight of the discovery sits heavy in my chest, suffocating. I just need to get to work.
Another wave of nausea hits me and I grab my stomach, glancing into a shop window as I do. A pharmacy. I stop so abruptly that someone nearly collides into me, muttering a curse as they swerve past. I don’t even register it.
I just stare at the bright white and green sign, at the familiar lettering, at the doors I’ve passed by a dozen times without a second thought.
Now, I can’t look away.
The thought comes out of nowhere. Sharp. Cold. Unshakable.
Could I be pregnant?
The nausea. The exhaustion. The way my clothes feel just a little too snug this morning. The way my body aches in a way it shouldn’t. Bloated?
Pregnant?
When was my last period?
No. It’s stress. Just stress.
Before I can second-guess myself, I step inside.
The overhead lights are too bright, the air too sterile. The shelves stretch in neat rows, lined with vitamins and medicine, beauty products and first aid kits. And, in the far right corner?—
Pregnancy tests.
I don’t let myself hesitate.
I grab one.
The cashier barely looks at me as he rings it up. The bag he hands me is thin, crinkling loudly in my grip as I shove it into my coat pocket.
By the time I reach work, my hands feel numb.
I don’t say hello to Emilio as I rush inside. “Nice of you to join us,” he calls as I rush past him to the bathroom.
“Be right back,” I shout over my shoulder.
The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead as I lock myself inside the stall, my breathing too loud, too fast. My pulse won’t settle.
I force myself to move, to go through the motions. Tear open the box. Pull out the test. Follow the instructions mechanically, like I’m not even inside my own body. Peeing on a stick. That’s all. Just confirming I’m not pregnant. Easy enough.
I set the test down.
Then I wait.
Sixty seconds.
Ninety.
My entire world hinges on a stupid little stick.
I almost don’t look.
But then I do.
Two pink lines.
The air disappears from my lungs. A roaring silence fills my head, drowning everything else out. My hands start to shake. I can’t stop them.
And then, softly, I whisper?—
“No. No, no, no.”
My stomach lurches.
Pregnant. With Ivan’s baby.
It doesn’t make sense. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was one night. One single night.
My breath hitches, my free hand pressing against my stomach before I can stop myself.
There’s a life inside me. A piece of him.
My vision blurs, my mind spiraling, unraveling in all directions at once.
I have to tell him.
How? I don’t even know where he is. If he’d even care.
A sharp pain lances through my chest.
He isn’t the kind of man who settles down, who has a family, who holds a child in his arms and whispers soft words.
He’s a killer.
He’s dangerous.
He’s everything a father shouldn’t be.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still see him. The sharp cut of his jaw. The cold calculation in his eyes.
A strangled sound leaves my throat.
I don’t want him to care.
My hand stays on my stomach.
I could have a piece of him forever.