Chapter 9 #3
Just the sour aftertaste of food I barely remembered eating.
When it finally stopped, I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against the cool seat.
Sweat formed along my hairline.
On my neck.
On my upper lip.
My breathing came in shallow, uneven pants.
I stayed there for several seconds — trying to regain control.
Pregnancy symptoms.
The thought hit me like ice water dumped directly over my head.
My stomach twisted — not from nausea this time — but from realization.
I hadn’t had a period last month.
Or the month before that.
My cycle had never been perfectly regular — but it had never disappeared for this long.
My heart started pounding violently against my ribs.
Once. Twice.
Then it felt like it dropped straight into my stomach.
No.
No.
No.
The word repeated in my mind like denial could protect me.
I couldn’t be pregnant.
Not now.
Not after everything.
Not with him.
Not in the middle of war, betrayal, prison visits, and power struggles.
I reached into my pocket with shaky fingers and pulled out my phone.
I had to confirm.
I couldn’t spiral into assumptions.
I dialed Petros.
He answered on the first ring.
“Petros,” I said quickly, my voice hoarse from vomiting. “Can you get me pregnancy tests? I... I don’t think I can go to the store today.”
There was no hesitation on his end.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Calm. Professional.
No questions asked.
“I’ll have them delivered to you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
The line disconnected.
I stood there for a moment longer, staring at my reflection again before forcing myself to move.
I dragged myself out of the bathroom and made my way upstairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Dizziness pressed at the edges of my vision like a dark curtain trying to close in.
By the time I reached my bedroom, exhaustion had settled deep into my bones — heavier than physical fatigue.
I didn’t even bother changing.
I collapsed onto the edge of the mattress and then slowly curled onto my side.
The room spun gently.
My body felt drained.
Like something inside me had siphoned away my strength.
I closed my eyes briefly — hoping rest would help.
Minutes passed.
Or maybe longer.
Time felt distorted.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
My eyelids fluttered open.
“Who is it?” I asked weakly.
Petros couldn’t have been that fast.
The door opened slightly.
Yannis peeked inside.
His dark hair fell into his eyes.
His expression shifted immediately when he saw me lying on the bed.
Concern.
“Come here, sweetheart,” I said gently — forcing myself to sit upright despite the wave of dizziness that followed.
He walked inside quietly.
Barefoot.
Careful.
He stopped a few feet from the bed and looked at me closely.
His hands lifted.
“You’re not fine?” he signed — movements small but urgent.
I met his eyes.
Honest.
“No,” I admitted. “I’m not.”
His shoulders stiffened.
“What can I do?” he signed quickly. “Should I boil warm water? Bring tea? Medicine?”
My lips curved into a small smile — real but tired.
“No, baby.”
I shook my head. “I just need rest.”
I reached for his hand gently.
“I’ll be okay. Promise.”
He studied my face for a few seconds — like he was measuring whether I was telling the truth.
Then he sighed.
Small.
Resigned. “Okay.”
His hands moved again.
“I’ll give you space.”
A beat.
“I’ll check on you later.”
My chest tightened at how mature he sounded.
How protective.
“Aww...” I whispered softly. “You’re too sweet, Yannis.”
I reached forward and ruffled his hair gently.
He leaned into my touch for a brief second — allowing comfort.
Allowing closeness.
Then he straightened and stepped back.
He paused at the door.
Turned.
And signed one more thing.
“Sorry, Elena.”
The words confused me.
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“Because you’re not okay.”
My throat tightened instantly.
This child.
He blamed himself for things that weren’t his responsibility.
I pushed myself up slightly.
“Yannis.”
I signed carefully. “You don’t apologize for my body feeling sick.”
His gaze softened.
I continued: “This isn’t your fault.”
He nodded slowly — absorbing it.
Then I signed again: “Thank you.”
He gave me a small nod.
Then quietly closed the door behind him — giving me the space I asked for.
The room fell silent.
And once alone again —
My hand drifted slowly to my abdomen.
Not consciously. Not intentionally.
Just instinct.
My fingers rested lightly against my stomach.
My breath slowed.
Fear. Shock. And possibility collided inside my chest.
If the test came back positive...
I swallowed hard.
I sank back against the pillows and closed my eyes for just a moment.
I had forced myself to act normal for him.
Strong. Controlled. Unshaken.
Yannis already carried too much anxiety for a child his age. He didn’t need to see me unraveling.
He didn’t need to see fear on my face.
But pretending didn’t erase reality.
The nausea lingered — not as violently as before, but like a low-grade fever that refused to leave.
My head throbbed slightly.
Dizziness hovered at the edges of my thoughts.
My body felt drained.
Forty minutes passed.
Or maybe an hour.
Time blurred as I drifted in and out of shallow sleep.
Then—
A firmer knock sounded at the door.
I blinked awake instantly.
“Yannis?” I called softly, my voice heavy with sleep.
“It’s Petros, ma’am.”
His voice came through clearly. “I have the pregnancy tests.”
My heart skipped.
Then started pounding.
I forced myself upright — immediately regretting it as dizziness hit again — and pushed the blanket aside.
I walked toward the door on unsteady legs.
When I opened it, Petros stood there calmly.
Posture straight.
Expression unreadable but professional.
He held a small brown paper bag in his hands.
“Thank you,” I said quietly as I took it from him.
He didn’t step inside.
He never overstepped.
“Whatever you need, Elena,” he replied.
His tone was respectful.
Loyal.
“Just let me know.”
There was no curiosity in his eyes.
No judgment.
Just quiet support.
He gave a small nod and walked away — steady steps disappearing down the hallway.
Petros had been one of the few constants since Ruslan’s arrest.
The most reliable of his remaining men.
Loyal to structure.
Loyal to protection.
Loyal — even when the king was locked behind bars.
I closed the door and leaned my back against it for a second.
My fingers tightened around the bag.
Five test kits.
Five.
My breath caught.
I walked slowly back toward the en-suite bathroom.
My thoughts started racing before I even stepped inside.
I had only had sex once in the last five years.
With Ruslan.
Two months ago.
That night had been chaos.
Emotions tangled.
Anger colliding with desire.
Hatred fighting against attraction.
I remembered it too clearly.
How I had told myself it meant nothing.
How I had convinced myself I was using him.
How my body betrayed my logic.
I hated him.
And somehow I still let him touch me.
Stupid hormones. Temporary weakness.
Traitorous body.
One moment of impulsive surrender.
That was all it took.
God.
Please.
Don’t let this be pregnancy.
I locked the bathroom door behind me.
The sound clicked louder than necessary in the silence.
My hands trembled as I opened the first test.
I peeled back the plastic wrapper.
Sat on the toilet.
Held the stick carefully between my thighs.
And peed on the absorbent tip.
I tried to breathe normally.
Tried to calm my racing heart.
Then I placed the test on the counter.
Washed my hands.
And stared at myself in the mirror.
Eyes wide.
Fear clearly visible.
I looked like someone standing at the edge of a life-altering cliff.
The seconds stretched.
Slow.
Cruel.
Agonizing.
I lifted the test.
My stomach dropped.
Two red lines.
My breath froze in my lungs.
No.
No.
No.
This couldn’t be accurate.
Maybe it was faulty.
Maybe it misread something.
I grabbed the test again and shoved it back under the stream — even though there was barely anything left to test.
I waited again.
Hands shaking.
Heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears.
I lifted it once more.
Two red lines.
The panic exploded through my chest.
It can’t be.
I ripped open the second test with trembling fingers.
Same process.
Same waiting.
Same unbearable silence.
I looked down.
Two red lines.
My vision blurred slightly.
Third test.
Two red lines.
Fourth.
Two red lines.
My breathing became shallow.
Fast.
Uncontrolled.
I stared at the fifth — the last one.
My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped it into the sink.
Please.
I forced myself to focus.
I peed again — barely enough for the test to register.
Placed it down.
Waited.
The seconds dragged like punishment.
I picked it up.
Two red lines.
All five.
Positive.
Two months pregnant.
My knees buckled instantly.
I grabbed the edge of the sink to stop myself from collapsing.
My knuckles turned white from the force.
My vision tunneled.
The room tilted slightly.
Dizziness slammed into me again — stronger now.
I slid down the wall slowly until I was sitting on the cold tile floor.
My knees were pulled tightly to my chest.
My head dropped forward.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My mind started attacking me immediately.
I should have taken the morning-after pill.
Right after.
Why didn’t I?
Why had I let anger and desire override logic?
One moment.
That was all it took.
One night.
And history repeated itself.
How could one man be this fertile?
How could my body betray me like this again?
My fingers moved slowly.
Almost unconsciously.
They rested over my stomach.
Slow.
Protective.
Circling gently.
The motion was instinct — not decision.
Warm tears slid down my cheeks before I could stop them.
The first pregnancy had ended in blood.
On a prison cot.
Silence.
Doctors whispering.
A life that never got the chance to breathe.
A child erased by violence and circumstances I couldn’t control.
My chest tightened painfully at the memory.