Chapter 3 The Male Reproductive System
THE MALE REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM
*Samantha*
I sensed Tara’s gaze move over me every so often in the rearview mirror as I pressed my palms together, knuckles white, and tried to will my heart to slow.
She said nothing, bless her, and seemed to be unbothered by the altercation with Henrik.
Meanwhile, I was playing it on loop in my brain.
She’d thrown a grown man to the ground and made it look easy.
And now, she behaved as though roughing Henrik up was the same as assisting an innocuous, little old lady cross the street.
Maybe, to her, she had. Maybe I was an innocuous little old lady.
We drove in silence for a block, then two, the hum of the engine and the rhythmic tick of the turn signal the only sounds besides my own ragged breathing. At the next red light, I spoke without planning to.
“Can you drive around for a bit before heading back to the apartment? I just need a few minutes.” My voice sounded too thin, almost childlike. I hated that, but didn’t have the energy to make it tougher.
Tara nodded, eyes flickering to me in the mirror. “Sure. But I’ll have to let Andreas know. I just told him we were on our way and if we’re running late, he’ll want to know. Is that okay?”
For a second, I bristled at the idea of being surveilled, but the feeling faded just as quickly as it arrived. I had no problem with Andreas keeping tabs on me. Not after today. He was right about his brothers and he was right about Henrik in particular. It wasn’t paranoia if it was warranted.
“Yes, of course. That’s fine.” I exhaled and tried to melt my spine into the seat.
Tara thumbed her phone at the next stoplight, probably sending a perfectly bland update. It dawned on me that this was my life now. Status reports. Driver/bodyguard. The prospect didn’t even feel dystopian; it felt reasonable given the stakes.
The Mercedes glided through city blocks where people in expensive yoga pants jogged with their dogs and didn’t have to wonder whether some Scandinavian sociopath was plotting to end their nonexistent pregnancy.
I envied them, a little. Or maybe a lot.
I’d never admit that out loud, even under torture, which I now suspected Henrik would be happy to provide, gratis.
After two turns, Tara spoke again, voice pitched low. “You handled yourself really well. I know you’re probably shaken, but you kept your head.” She paused. “Most people don’t.”
I tried to snort, but it sounded more like a hiccup. “I hid behind glass, Tara.”
“And you didn’t run. You made him work for it. I’ve seen plenty of people freeze up or faint, or try to punch back and end up with a concussion. You, though—you got out of the situation, kept your wits and your phone, waited for me, stayed focused. Good job.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded.
By the third left turn, my hands had stopped shaking.
The adrenaline ebbed, which meant a wave of exhaustion washed over me, threatening to knock me out cold right there in the back seat.
I watched the city scroll by through the tinted window and let my mind go blank for the first time since I recognized Henrik’s face.
The thought emerged, Why had Henrik called my dad a coward? I didn’t know. Either way, the next steps were clear. I had to be smarter, meaner, and better prepared. There was no room for error, not when people like the Kristiansens existed.
I waited until my pulse slowed, until I could speak without feeling like my tongue would tie itself in a hangman’s knot, before instructing Tara, “You can take me back to the apartment now.”
Tara caught my gaze in the mirror, checked my face, then nodded. “Got it.” She steered us into traffic and in five more minutes we were pulling up outside the apartment building.
By then, I felt almost like myself again. I thanked Tara, even though I knew she didn’t need to be thanked, and grabbed my backpack from the floor. I lifted my hand to the door handle when I caught sight of Andreas on the sidewalk.
He stood with his arms folded, eyes on the Mercedes, body angled toward the street like he was preparing to intercept a riot or maybe chase down a rogue food truck.
He wore a charcoal sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent at my old apartment, and for some reason, the sight of him, there, clearly waiting for me in the dwindling daylight and cold, made me want to cry.
Before I could even pull the door handle, Andreas was at the back window, knocking. The knock was polite, but the force behind it suggested he was two seconds from tearing off the whole door.
Tara unlocked the car, and he pulled the back door open, his silhouette momentarily filling the frame.
His eyes, usually half-mast and unreadable, were liquid and alive.
There was a tightness in his jaw and a wildness in the way he scanned my face, like he was searching for injuries or evidence of trauma that might not be visible to the naked eye.
He did not speak, not right away. The air inside the car seemed to freeze, and then, suddenly, he reached inside, grabbed me by the shoulder, and pulled me out.
I stumbled but he caught me. I was now pressed against him, my chin nearly to his chest, his arm locked around my back, his hand fisting the fabric of my jacket. It was a full-body hug, the kind meant to keep a person from falling apart, or maybe to keep the world from taking them away.
He seemed to be vibrating. Not a lot, just enough for me to notice. His heart was a trip-hammer, beating through his chest so fast it made my own skip a few measures.
He held me, and only after a long moment, did he speak. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? Did he touch you?”
I shook my head, unable to find words. My throat was blocked by something big and jagged and stupid. Tears burned behind my eyelids, but I refused to let them fall. I could smell his skin and his cologne and, faintly, the chamomile tea he must have been drinking when he got Tara’s text.
He stepped back, but only enough to look me in the eyes. “You’re sure?”
I nodded again, trying to manage a reply, but all that came out was, “I’m okay. I’m fine.”
His hand tightened on my upper arm and his voice dropped to a whisper. “You have to stay inside the building until your guard arrives from now on. Promise me. God, if something had happened to you, if he had hurt you . . .”
That nearly undid me. He sounded so genuinely upset, so real and so raw, that I had to look away. My vision swam for a second, and I realized my entire body was cold, except for the spots where his hands gripped me. They were warm, unreasonably so.
“It’s okay,” I managed, but it sounded pathetic, even to me.
He shook his head. “It is not okay. I am sorry. I—” His words jammed together, tangled and sharp. “I will not let it happen again.”
My chest hurt with the effort it took to not cry. For a moment, I wondered if this was all for show. But the pulse pounding under his skin, the way he kept glancing at my face and then away, like it was physically painful to see me scared, told me otherwise. He was afraid. For me.
That, more than anything, made me feel oddly safe, safer than I’d felt in a long time. I had someone looking out for me, checking in, waiting for me to come home.
Not allowing myself to think too much about it, I buried my face in his chest and let myself be held. I was so tired, so wrung out, that I didn’t care if the whole city watched. The pressure of his embrace was grounding, a force field against the rest of the world.
Tara stepped away, silent and invisible as a shadow, giving us space. For the first time in a long time, I let myself be comforted. I let myself believe that maybe, in this one thing, I wasn’t alone.
We stood like that for a long time, not speaking, just breathing each other’s air, until my heart slowed and my thoughts grew quiet. When I finally looked up, Andreas’s eyes were less wild, but the concern in them hadn’t faded.
“You’re really okay?” he asked, softer this time.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay now.”
He nodded, but didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened for a heartbeat, then loosened just enough for him to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear, an oddly delicate gesture.
He glanced toward the doorman, who had come out of his booth and now stood a respectful distance away, pretending to be interested in the curb. “Let us go inside,” Andreas said, but didn’t move.
I stepped away first, feeling steadier, and walked through the lobby. He followed and hovered at my side like a satellite, orbiting, always within arm’s reach. I didn’t mind. The further we got from the sidewalk, the less I felt the urge to look over my shoulder.
We entered the elevator, and only then did he speak again, voice low and meant for me alone. “Tara texted me that you did everything right. She said you were smart and you kept your head.”
I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn’t quite obey. “Mostly I just didn’t want to be the star of a true crime documentary.”
Andreas almost smiled. “I would not let that happen.”
The elevator chimed and we walked in silence to the apartment. He opened the door and ushered me inside. For a second, I stood there, taking in the warmth of the space, the faint aroma of coffee and whatever savory dish Andreas was having for dinner.
I dropped my bag in the entryway and turned to look at him. He studied me for a moment, then closed the distance and wrapped me in another hug. This one was less urgent, more careful. It felt like a promise, or maybe an apology.
I let myself relax. I let him hold me up. And there were no cameras here. This wasn’t for show.
“Thank you,” I whispered, not sure if I was thanking him for the hug, for worrying, or for being exactly who I needed in this moment.
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He just held on, and I held back, and for the next minute, that was enough.
* * *