Chapter Thirty-Four
When was the last time I got my period? My heart stutters, then breaks out a race as I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at my calendar. My cycle has been regular for years, and the last time I bled was… six weeks ago.
Several facts collide in my mind. I’ve been sick every morning and some nights—which could be attributed to stress, but could also be much more sinister.
I’ve been distant and standoffish with Killian, which could easily be chalked up to his behavior the night he caught me researching Silas, but is also reminiscent of how I get when I’m PMS’ing.
My body is more sensitive—when Killian spanked me last night, it hurt more than usual. I figured he was adjusting the strengths of his blows because he hadn’t had time to spank me in several days, but then… he might not have.
My breasts feel more tender. I’m exhausted all the time, sleeping in and going to bed early.
And I’m two weeks late on my period.
No. No, no, no, no… I can’t be pregnant.
I cannot be pregnant. The very thought fills me with dread—there’s no fucking way I’m pregnant.
I’ve only known Killian for two months, and while he’s fucked me often—and has never once used a condom—I took Plan B in the beginning, and then, I got on birth control.
But birth control isn’t 100% effective… and a couple weeks ago, I had to take antibiotics to get over my cold. Don’t antibiotics mess with the effectiveness of birth control pills?
The pit of dread in my stomach balloons, coursing throughout my entire body. My hands shake so violently I have to clasp them as I stare wide-eyed at the pregnancy tests. With a trembling hand, I reach forward to pick one up, turning it over to see if it has English instructions on the back.
It does. It’s an early detection test, claiming to detect pregnancy within 7-10 days of conception. Exhaling deeply, I pick up three tests.
I’m not pregnant, I can’t be pregnant… but it wouldn’t hurt to double-check. Just to settle my emotions and get the horrible thought out of my mind.
Locke. Locke’s lurking somewhere outside the store—if he sees I purchased pregnancy tests, he’ll tell Killian, and if Killian finds out, I don’t know what he’ll do.
If they come back positive—which they can’t—he’ll probably force me to have an abortion.
He’s repeatedly stated that I’m not fit to carry his heir.
That’s a point we agree on. I’m too young to be a mother, and I don’t have a reliable partner or financial stability. Bringing a child into the world at this stage in my life would be a cruelty, not a kindness.
I grab a few shampoo and conditioner bottles, carefully arranging the tests behind them as I walk to the checkout desk.
A woman speaking heavily accented English makes small talk with me as she rings me up, but I don’t have the attention span to truly engage with her.
I pay with my card instead of the one Killian left on the nightstand, accept the paper bag with my purchased goods she hands me, and walk out of the pharmacy, feeling dazed.
Locke is idling just outside, smoking a cigarette.
I didn’t know he smoked. The scent of tobacco makes my stomach turn, but I swallow down the vomit threatening to rise.
All I can think about is taking these tests.
I have to take them, I have to be certain I’m not pregnant, and then I have to find a way to permanently escape Killian—hone in on Silas and establish a link.
I have to get past this nightmarish stage of my life and move on.
“You alright?” Locke asks, stomping out the cigarette. “You look pale.”
His eyes drop to the bag clutched in my hands, narrowing on the death-grip I have on the paper.
I clear my throat, attempting a smile. “Yes, I’m just a bit tired. I still haven’t shaken off the jetlag. Can we go back to the castle?”
“Of course.” Locke jerks his chin at the bag. “Want me to take that?”
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. If I say yes, he might find the tests, even though they’re carefully arranged below the hair products. If I say no, it’ll look suspicious.
I swallow down a fresh wave of nausea and offer Locke what I pray is a composed smile. “Yes, thank you.”
He takes the bag from me, and we walk to the car. He doesn’t peek inside it, doesn’t seem particularly suspicious, which is probably because Locke has long-since determined that I’m not a threat.
He’s right; I’m not a threat. In fact, Killian has proven to be the threat in our relationship. I’m the bystander who can’t seem to get a break no matter how hard she tries. Which just means I’ll have to try harder—but first, I need to triple-check that I’m not fucking pregnant.
When Locke pulls up in front of the castle, I go to the hotel room on unsteady legs, take the bag into the bathroom, and pull out the three pregnancy tests.
I can scarcely breathe as I pee on all three sticks, set a timer on my phone, and chew on my nails, pacing back and forward in the bathroom.
Killian’s still not due back for another couple of hours—enough time for me to confirm I’m not pregnant, relax, and dispose of the evidence.
When the alarm on my phone goes off, it startles me so much I jump with a yelp. Then, I hurry across the bathroom to check the results. My fingers are stiff as I pick up the test, gazing down at it. There’s one pink line at the end…
And another pink like right next to it, indicating pregnancy.
No. It has to be a fluke. I pick up the second test—same result. The third, as well.
My knees give out. I drop to the floor, nauseous, overwhelmed, horrified, and stuck in a pit of despair. Somehow, I’ve fallen pregnant with Killian’s spawn. His bastard spawn, growing inside me, at this very moment.
No.
I know what has to be done—I need to call my gynecologist and schedule an appointment the moment I land back in the states. I have to terminate the cluster of cells inside me before it turns into a baby that I won’t have the heart to get rid of.
My eyes sting with tears as I crawl to the sink counter and reach up to grab my phone. The tears start to fall as I draw my knees up to my chest, my whole body trembling, and navigate to my gynecologist.
It’s 7am in NYC, so I don’t expect her to pick up, but the call goes through. Her receptionist answers.
My tone is weak as I explain I need to see my doctor in regards to terminating a pregnancy. She pencils me in for a rush-appointment the day after I get back to NYC.
I hang up, shrink into myself, and allow myself a few minutes to lose it. I full-on ugly sob, the way I’ve only done a few times in my life. I experience the full force of my mental breakdown, allowing the devastation to course through me, until my tears run dry.
Then, I stand up. Toss the pregnancy tests into the trash bin, and call for room service to come clean out the room.
I wander through the hotel lobby as the maids clean up the room, then return half an hour later.
The maids are gone. The trash cans are empty. Any evidence of my pregnancy that Killian could discover is gone.
I have no intention of telling him that I’m carrying a cluster of cells with his DNA in it—not now, and not ever. If Locke continues shadowing me after I get to the U.S., I can explain away a gynecologist’s visit as my yearly checkup.
I have a mountain to climb on my own—eight terrible weeks topped off with one thing I never thought I’d have to do: an abortion.
But it’s better to scale the cliff myself than let Killian drag me down into the abyss.