11. TRUTH
TRUTH
The nausea hit me like a freight train.
One second, I was asleep, warm and safe in Amai’s arms, and the next I was lurching upright, my stomach twisting violently, bile rising in my throat so fast I barely had time to register what was happening.
I threw the covers off and stumbled toward the bathroom, my hand clamped over my mouth, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. The room spun slightly—or maybe that was just me, disoriented and desperate, trying not to vomit all over the expensive rug.
I made it to the toilet just in time.
The first wave came hard and fast, my body convulsing as I gripped the porcelain bowl and emptied my stomach. The sound was awful—wet, guttural, humiliating. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe through my nose, but another wave hit before I could catch my breath.
God, I hated this part.
I’d been lucky so far. The morning sickness had been manageable—mild nausea, a few queasy moments here and there, nothing I couldn’t handle. But this? This was different. This was violent and unrelenting, like my body had decided to punish me on top of everything I was dealing with.
I heard footsteps behind me, quick and purposeful, and then Amai was there.
“Truth.”
His voice was low and steady. I wanted to tell him to go away, to leave me alone, to not see me like this—on my knees in front of a toilet, retching and shaking, and completely stripped of any dignity I might have had left.
But I couldn’t speak. Another wave hit, and I gagged, my body heaving even though there was nothing left to come up.
Amai knelt beside me without a word. His hand gathered my hair—gently, carefully—and pulled it back from my face, holding it at the nape of my neck. His other hand settled on my back, warm and solid, rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades.
“I got you,” he said quietly.
I wanted to cry. Not because I was sick, but because he was here, holding my hair back like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like I wasn’t disgusting. Like I wasn’t falling apart.
I threw up again—mostly bile now, bitter and burning—and my throat felt raw, my eyes watering from the force of it. My hands trembled where they gripped the toilet seat, and I could feel sweat beading on my forehead, my skin clammy and cold.
“It’s okay,” Amai murmured, his hand still moving in those steady circles on my back. “Let it out.”
I hated that he was seeing this. Hated that he was here, witnessing the unglamorous, brutal reality of pregnancy.
This wasn’t the version of me he’d made love to last night—the woman who’d looked up at him with trust and desire, who’d let him snatch her soul in front of the fireplace.
This was the version no one wanted to see.
The version that was messy, weak, and human.
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right beside me, holding my hair, rubbing my back, his presence steady and unshakable.
When the nausea finally subsided—or at least paused long enough for me to catch my breath—I slumped forward, resting my forehead against my arm on the toilet seat. My body felt wrung out, exhausted, like I’d just run a marathon. My mouth tasted like acid and regret.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
“For what?”
I didn’t answer. What was I supposed to say? For being gross. For making you see this. For not seeing who your brother really is.
Amai let go of my hair and stood. For a second, I thought he was leaving. But then I heard the faucet turn on, the sound of water running. A moment later, he was back, kneeling beside me again.
“Here.”
He pressed a cold, damp towel to the back of my neck, and the relief was immediate.
The coolness seeped into my skin, cutting through the nausea and the dizziness, grounding me.
I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation—the weight of the towel, the chill against my overheated skin, the way it made everything feel just a little more bearable.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet.
His hand returned to my back, rubbing slow, soothing circles again. He didn’t say anything else. Just stayed there with me, patient and present, like he had all the time in the world.
I didn’t know how long we sat like that. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for the nausea to recede to a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. Long enough for the embarrassment to settle into something quieter, something I could almost live with.
Finally, I lifted my head and looked at him.
He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read—concern, maybe, but something else too. Something softer. Something that made my breath hitch in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.
“I hated not being there for this part,” he said quietly.
I blinked, confused. “What?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely toward the toilet, toward me. “The morning sickness. The hard parts. I hated that I wasn’t there for it.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. He sounded… regretful. Like he’d missed something important. Like he wished he could have been there from the beginning, holding my hair back, and rubbing my back and making sure I was okay.
“You weren’t supposed to be,” I said, my voice still rough.
“I know.” His jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away, his hand still resting on my back. “But I should have been there anyway.”
His voice was raw and unguarded—that made my throat tighten. This wasn’t the ruthless crime boss who’d stabbed his own brother. This wasn’t the man who’d beat the hell out of my ex. This was someone else. Someone who’d been denied something he didn’t even know he wanted until it was too late.
“I was cool with the contract,” he continued, his voice low. “When I thought that’s all it was—when I thought I’d just be… a donor, a name on a piece of paper—I told myself it was enough. If I couldn’t have it all, I’d settle for a piece of happiness. A piece of something real.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just listened.
“I never believed I could have a wife,” he said, and there was something almost bitter in the way he said it. “Or a child. Not really. Not in my world. That wasn’t… it wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t something I was allowed to want.”
His hand stilled on my back, and he looked at me again, his dark eyes holding mine.
“So, I settled,” he said. “I told myself a piece was better than nothing. That I could live with that.”
My chest ached. Not from nausea, but from Amai opening up to me. It was like he was trying to let me in. He wanted me to know his why. The reason we were sitting here on a bathroom floor, each one exposing something different.
“And now?” I whispered.
His expression shifted—something fierce and possessive flickering across his face.
“Now I want it all,” he said simply.
The words hung in the air, igniting the heat between us.
I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to respond to that kind of honesty, that kind of vulnerability. So, I just sat there, staring at him, my heart pounding in my chest.
Another wave of nausea rolled through me—gentler this time, but still enough to make me grimace. I leaned forward again, gripping the toilet, and Amai’s hand was immediately back on my back, steadying me.
“Easy,” he murmured.
I dry-heaved a few times, my body trying to expel something that wasn’t there anymore. It was painful and exhausting, and I wanted it to stop. I wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to not be this fragile, broken thing that couldn’t even keep food down.
But Amai didn’t seem bothered. He just kept rubbing my back, kept holding the towel against my neck, kept being there.
When the wave passed, I slumped back against the wall, too tired to move. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My head was spinning. My mouth tasted like death.
“I have Natasha’s meal plan,” Amai said after a moment.
I looked at him, confused. “What?”
“Your chef. Natasha. I got the meal plan she was making for you back home.”
I blinked. “How did you—”
“Priest,” he said simply. “I had him get it. Figured you’d need it.”
Of course he did. Of course he’d thought of that. Of course he’d made sure I had access to the same carefully planned meals Natasha had been preparing for me—the ones designed to keep my nausea manageable and my nutrition balanced.
“I’ll go to the store,” he continued. “Get you something that’ll sit better. Once I make sure you’re okay.”
I stared at him, overwhelmed by the casual way he said it. Like it was nothing. Like driving to the store at—I glanced at the clock on the bathroom wall—5:32 in the morning to get food for a pregnant woman who’d just thrown up everything but her soul was just something he did.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said weakly.
“I know.”
He stood and grabbed a washcloth from the towel rack, ran it under cold water, and wrung it out. Then he knelt in front of me again and gently wiped my face—my forehead, my cheeks, around my mouth. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He didn’t respond. Just finished cleaning my face, folded the washcloth, and set it aside.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure. My legs felt like jelly, and my head was still spinning slightly. But I didn’t want to stay on this bathroom floor any longer than I had to.
Amai stood first, then reached down and helped me to my feet. His hands were steady on my arms, holding me upright until I found my balance. When I swayed slightly, he pulled me against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist to keep me steady.
“I got you,” he said again.
And I believed him.
Because despite everything—despite the violence, despite the lies, the bullshit with his brother—he was here. Holding me. Taking care of me. Being the man I needed him to be.
And maybe that was the most terrifying part of all.