Chapter 16 Kazimir
KAZIMIR
After she takes those first few tests, she leaves the motel. I can see, even through the fuzzy camera feed, that she looks more distressed than usual. Her movements are jerky and anxious, and she keeps touching her stomach, then stopping herself like she's afraid someone will notice.
Something's wrong. And I have a sinking feeling that I know what it might be.
I keep seeing that pregnancy test, and then the others she took, the sticks on the sink that I couldn’t zoom in well enough to see. I’m not stupid—all of those tests, combined with the fact that she seems to be panicking, add up to something that I can’t quite wrap my head around.
If Svetlana is pregnant, then it could be…
Mine.
I close the laptop and grab my keys. As long as wherever she is going is at least the convenience store and back, I can get into her room and out again before she returns, if I drive fast. It’s reckless and not the smartest thing to do, but I’ve made nothing but reckless decisions since I saw Svetlana in that cell.
Now, after seeing those pregnancy tests, it doesn’t seem like the time to suddenly stop being reckless.
I park in the lot behind the motel, out of sight of the street. The lock on her door is a joke, as usual, and I have it open in seconds with the use of a credit card.
The room itself makes me wince—it’s clear she’s been too sick to take care of herself, and I’m sure housekeeping here isn’t exactly up to snuff.
The room smells musty, and the bed is unmade, the sheets tangled like she's been sleeping badly. There’s a half-eaten bowl of soup sitting in the microwave, and opened bottles of water and Gatorade.
A few articles of clothing are draped over the single chair, the same clothes I've seen her wear on rotation because she doesn't have anything else.
She's barely surviving.
The thought makes something twist in my chest. She shouldn't be living like this. She should be somewhere safe, somewhere comfortable. Somewhere I can take care of her.
I head straight for the bathroom. There, lying in the trash can, are three used pregnancy tests.
And every one of them clearly reads positive. Two pink lines, on all three, clear as day.
For a moment, I just stare at them. My brain struggles to process what I'm seeing, to make sense of it. I pick one of them up, holding it carefully as if it might go off like a bomb.
Svetlana is pregnant.
My hand starts to shake. I set the test back down exactly where I found it, but I can't look away from it. The timeline crashes through my mind like a freight train. She was held in that compound for months. They used her. Hurt her. She made it clear they didn’t bother with precautions.
If she's pregnant, it could be from one of them.
From one of those animals who treated her like she belonged to them.
The thought makes rage burn through me, hot and vicious. If it's theirs—if one of those bastards put a child in her—
But it could also be mine.
The memory of the safe house crashes through me, so intense that I have to grip the side of the sink to stay steady.
I came inside of her, too, like I had every right to, as if she belonged to me.
I couldn't stop myself, couldn't pull away, couldn't do anything but claim her completely. I apologized after, when I realized what I’d done, but that doesn’t change what happened.
If she's pregnant, there's a chance that it's mine. My child.
I squeeze the edge of the sink, my knuckles going white.
The possessiveness that's been simmering in my chest for weeks explodes into something I can't control.
It's not just want anymore. It's not just an obsession.
It's something primal, something that reaches into the deepest part of me and takes hold.
She's mine. She's been mine since the moment I saw her in that cell. I saved her. I got her out. I brought her back here.
I fucked her, came inside of her, made her mine.
And now she's carrying my child.
Maybe.
My mind can’t even process the possibility of it being anything else. And right now, it doesn’t even feel like it matters. Even if it's not biologically mine, she's still mine. The baby is mine. I've already claimed her, already decided that she belongs to me. This just makes it undeniable.
I can't leave her out here, let her struggle alone in this shithole motel, barely scraping by. She needs me—my protection, my resources, my strength.
She needs to be with me.
I can keep her safe. I can make sure she eats properly, sleeps properly, has everything she needs.
I can make sure that no one can take her away.
I leave the test where it is and back out of the bathroom, my mind racing.
I need to think, and make a plan. I can't just grab her off the street—she'll fight and scream, and she'll hate me even more than she already does.
I need to convince her—make her see that this is the right choice.
That I can give her everything she needs.
I lock the door behind me and return to my car, pulling up the camera feed on my phone. She's not back yet. I have time.
But time for what? What am I going to say to her? How do I explain that I know about the pregnancy, that I've been watching her, that I've been in her room?
I can't. There's no way to explain that without sending her into a panic—and rightfully so, considering what she’s been through.
But all I care about is keeping her safe. Keeping her with me.
Twenty minutes later, she appears on the camera in the bathroom. She's carrying a plastic bag from the pharmacy, and the look on her face makes my chest tighten. She looks terrified. Her eyes are red-rimmed like she's been crying, and she's walking slowly, like every step takes effort.
I see her take test after test. I watch her curl up on the bathroom floor, crying, and I want to go into the room, scoop her into my arms, and carry her out.
I want to take her home now… but that would only make things worse.
I need to come up with some way to make it seem as if I’ve found her without letting her know I’ve been watching her all this time.
This won’t work if I traumatize her all over again.
Reluctantly, I put the car in drive and head back to my apartment, mind spinning over every possibility, every plan that I can think of.
This needs to be foolproof. I have to protect her, and I have to protect myself from the consequences of keeping her.
I have to not only keep her safe, but keep her hidden.
I have time, surely. She won’t leave Boston yet, not after finding this out.
I just need a little time.
—
I barely get any sleep that night. By the time I see the sun rise outside of my apartment, I’ve made my decision.
She needs my help. I can’t wait to devise some plan that will enable me to convince her to come with me and tell me the truth about what’s happening without alerting her to the fact that I already know everything. I’m going to need to ask forgiveness later.
I'll go to her today. Talk to her. Explain that I know about the pregnancy, that I want to help. That I can give her everything she needs.
She'll say no at first. I know she will. But I'll convince her. I have to. The alternative—letting her stay in that motel, alone and struggling and pregnant—is unacceptable.
I get dressed and drive to the motel. By the time I’m pulling up around the back, I catch sight of her walking down the sidewalk, hands shoved in her pockets, her head lowered.
She’s already left, and she’s going… somewhere.
The determination in her stride makes unease prickle at the back of my neck.
I put the car into gear and follow her on instinct, staying half a block behind. She doesn't look back or notice me. She's too focused on wherever she's going.
She goes a block, then another, and turns left. I follow, keeping close without alerting her, but she’s so preoccupied that I barely need to worry about it. And then I see her turn again, striding toward one business in particular, and my stomach drops.
She’s heading toward the women’s health clinic.
Maybe she’s just going for a checkup that will let her pay in cash, but I also know why else she might be going.
Why a desperate, terrified woman who doesn’t know who the father of her baby is, and who has been assaulted endlessly in ways that could have resulted in that pregnancy, might go there.
My stomach drops. I could be wrong, but every instinct I have tells me that she’s going there to terminate the pregnancy.
Panic floods through me, sharp and cold. I speed up without consciously deciding to drive faster. She's half a block from the clinic now. I can see the building—plain brick, discreet signage, a few protesters with signs on the sidewalk. She's going to walk through that door, and it'll be over.
I can't let this happen.
I was going to talk to her. Convince her.
But there's no time. I pull around, driving faster toward the parking lot, intent on intercepting her.
I park as close to directly in her path as I can, and wait for her to walk by.
The moment she approaches, I yank on my baseball cap, pulling it low, and step behind her.
I don’t want her to know who I am yet. We can hash that out when we’re back at my apartment, not out in public. I don’t want to frighten her, but I don’t know what choice I have at this point. I need to get her and get out of here.
Quickly, I reach out as she passes by, grabbing her.
My hand closes around her arm, firm but not bruising.
She gasps and tries to pull away, but I'm already pulling her back toward my chest, maneuvering her toward the car. She kicks and tries to fight, but she’s weak, and it’s effortless to get her into the car and quickly get inside myself, locking the doors as I accelerate forward.