Chapter 13
ALINA
When I wake up, my stomach is roiling again and my mouth tastes like pennies. I groan in frustration. This has been going on for three weeks now. I feel like my life is in constant danger. This can’t be healthy.
For a few seconds, I stay very still, hoping the sensation will pass if I don’t acknowledge it.
The room is dim, filtered morning light slipping through the thin curtains.
The air smells faintly like clean laundry and coffee, which immediately makes the nausea worse.
My throat tightens and I swallow hard, pressing my lips together as my stomach clenches again.
Great. Just what I need.
I sit up slowly, bracing one hand on the mattress, taking a careful inventory of myself the way I do when something feels wrong.
My head doesn’t hurt. My body isn’t sore.
I don’t feel feverish or weak. I’m just gripped by relentless, unending fear.
I’m queasy in a deep, persistent way that doesn’t fade when I take a steadying breath.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pause, just in case the room starts to spin. It doesn’t. That’s something, at least.
This has been going on too long for it to just be fear, but nothing else makes sense. It could be food poisoning, I guess, but what kind of food poisoning lasts for weeks? A virus, maybe, but, again, it’s been weeks.
Unfortunately, I can’t go see a doctor right now because it isn’t safe to.
We’ve been in hiding since the first night of the party.
We’re now in our fourth safehouse, although thankfully we’ve just been moving to keep Andrei’s attacker on their toes.
There hasn’t been another significant threat since one of Andrei’s men was shot. That’s a small relief, at least.
Maybe it’s just the highly processed food we’re forced to eat in confinement. My body isn’t used to that.
The thought is oddly comforting, even though it makes no sense. It’s not like my diet was so pure and refined before this. I mostly survived on leftovers from catering gigs.
Still, my brain clings to the idea. Food poisoning would be inconvenient, but it would be normal.
I can find a way to manage it on my own without needing medical intervention.
Since I have no idea how long I’m going to be stuck in this vagrant lifestyle, it would be nice to know that I can manage my nausea on my own.
I’m only so focused on the sickness because there’s literally nothing else for me to do.
In addition to being the scariest few weeks of my life, it’s also been the most boring.
Andrei still won’t allow me to have a phone or any device that can access the internet.
He promised me he’s gotten word to my father that I’m safe, so that’s something.
My boss, on the other hand, has probably already found a new girl to replace me.
That’s such a depressing thought. Still, catering jobs are a dime a dozen, and Andrei will owe me huge after dragging me to every dingy safehouse around the five boroughs and forcing me into a perpetual state of boredom and fear.
Actually, this safehouse isn’t so bad. It’s an actual house, this time, and it does have a few boardgames and books.
I’ve read more in the last few weeks than I did all last year.
It doesn’t take my mind off of being sick, though.
Unfortunately, the more I worry about being sick, the sicker I actually feel.
I try to remember what we at for dinner last night. Chicken, I think, with frozen vegetables. Nothing strange. Nothing that should make my stomach revolt like this. I didn’t even finish the plate. My appetite has been off lately, though I’ve chalked that up to stress.
The nausea swells again, sharper this time, and I press my palm to my stomach, breathing through it when a thought suddenly occurs to me.
No.
I shake my head slightly, as if that will knock the thought loose before it can take root. My heart starts to race, suddenly and loudly in my ears. I have to run to the bathroom before I’m too weak to even stand up.
After I’ve unloaded the contents of my stomach, I slowly get up and splash some water on my face.
I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to see if I look physically different.
After being sick for so long, you’d think I’d be pale and skinnier.
I’m not. My face is actually flushed and a little bright.
I have been under stress for weeks. My engagement imploded. I’m effectively in hiding. I’m stuck with a dangerous man whose life involves constant threats and violence. Of course my body is reacting. Bodies do weird things under pressure.
I straighten slowly and brace my hands on the bathroom counter, and my gaze drifts slowly to my own stomach in the mirror. There’s nothing there, of course. There wouldn’t be this early. It’s only been, what? Three weeks? Four? Honestly, I’ve lost count because of how mundane this life has become.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that doesn’t stop the mental images from hitting. I remember that first night. I remember how good it felt. I remember his mouth at my throat, his breath warm against my skin. I think about how amazing I felt afterward, how weightless and satisfied.
What I don’t remember is a condom.
My stomach flips again, but this time it’s not nausea. I grip the counter harder, my pulse thudding.
I shake my head, opening my eyes and focusing on the here and now. This is not helpful. This is not productive. This is how panic starts, and I refuse to let myself unravel like this. I take a few slow breaths, counting them out until my heart rate settles.
I press my fingers to my lips, a humorless little laugh escaping me. This is insane.
I am hiding from potential assassins, questioning everything I thought I knew about my life, and now my brain wants to throw this at me too? As if I don’t already have enough to deal with.
I thought I wasn’t getting my period because of stress, but actually it’s because there’s potentially a tiny life growing inside of me right now.
I turn away from the mirror and pace the small bathroom, trying to burn off the restless energy building in my chest. The floor is cool beneath my feet. It helps ground me. I just need to think logically. Unfortunately, the more logically I try to think, the more the timing makes sense.
I feel suddenly lightheaded. I sink down onto the edge of the tub, one hand braced against the tile, breathing shallowly. The nausea surges again, stronger now, and I bend forward, pressing my forehead to my knees until it passes.
This cannot be happening.
I don’t even know how I would begin to handle this if it were true.
My life is completely out of control right now.
I don’t even know where I’ll be sleeping from one night to the next.
There’s no stability at all. Until Andrei catches this mysterious assassin, I’m stuck in this strange, upside down world, filled with danger and constant movement.
I don’t know what Andrei would do if he found out. He’s already so protective of me, to the point that it drives me nuts. Imagine me pregnant? He’d probably force me to live in a plastic bubble and ship me off to some remote country just to be sure that no threat ever comes to me.
If I tell him before I know for sure, I lose control of the situation entirely. Before I can worry about any of that, though. I need information. I need confirmation. Which means I need a pregnancy test.
How exactly will I swing that without him knowing?
I’m going to have to be cunning about this, which isn’t exactly my strong suit.
I don’t have the freedom to just run to a pharmacy.
He won’t let me out of his sight, let alone make a run to a random store.
I definitely can’t ask him if I can go without raising his suspicions.
If I ask one of our guards to get one for me, he’s definitely going to hear about it.
Think, Alina. Think. There has to be a way to get one without tipping him off.
I move into the kitchen area quietly. The safehouse is still, the early hour stretching out ahead of me. I pour myself a glass of water and sip it slowly, watching my hands for signs of shaking. They’re steady. That’s good.
I glance toward the hallway where Andrei’s room is, my chest tightening. He’ll be awake soon if he isn’t already. I cannot let him have any hint that I’m freaking out right now. I need to be smart.
I spend the morning considering my options.
After Andrei’s left the safehouse to take a meeting, I sit at the small kitchen table with a notebook in front of me, a pen balanced between my fingers, staring at the blank page like it might offer guidance.
The nausea has faded into a low, persistent unease.
I tap the pen against the paper, then finally lower it and write PHARMACY RUN at the top in all caps. My stomach flips again, hard enough that I pause, pressing the pen tip into the page until it almost tears.
I write tampons beneath it, then immediately scribble it out and rewrite very detailed instructions. Any man will freak out at this, no matter how trained he is for combat. Men hate the idea of periods. That’s my only hope of exploiting some poor guard.
I chew on the end of the pen and start listing other things. Shampoo. Conditioner. Face wash. Deodorant.
The guards rotate shifts, but there’s one who’s been around more often than the others. He looks young. Early twenties, maybe. He’s polite in a way that feels almost normal. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to exploit his kindness today.
I step into the hallway and spot him almost immediately, leaning against the wall near the front door, phone in hand. He straightens when he sees me, slipping it into his pocket.
“Morning,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply, summoning my most casual tone. “Do you have a minute?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“I was wondering if I could make a quick run to the pharmacy,” I say as innocently as possible.
His brow furrows just slightly.
“I can check,” he says carefully. “But we might have to send someone for you.”
“I figured,” I say quickly, waving a hand. “I just need a few things. Personal stuff.”
I emphasize the word personal, which makes him blush a little.
“Okay,” he answers a little uncomfortably.
I take that as encouragement and barrel forward before he can rethink it.
“It’s just that I’m very particular about my supplies,” I continue, pulling the notebook from behind my back like I’ve been hiding it for dramatic effect. “And if I don’t get the right ones, I will genuinely lose my mind.”
Even his ears turn pink.
I press on, fueled by nervous energy and the knowledge that stopping now would make this ten times worse.
“I mean it,” I add earnestly. “I once had to use the wrong brand during a twelve-hour catering shift, and I almost cried in a walk-in freezer. So this is really not optional.”
He clears his throat. “I see,” he says.
“I don’t think you do,” I reply, smiling tightly. “But that’s okay. You don’t have to. You just have to take me.”
Another blink. He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable but trying to stay professional.
“I’ll need to clear it,” he says.
“That’s fine,” I say, far too quickly. “Totally fine. I just wanted to be clear that this isn’t, like, a luxury errand. This is a medical necessity.”
He nods, eyes flicking to the notebook in my hand. They widen slightly, and I know he’s seen the word tampons.
He looks up at me again, face carefully neutral.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get clearance.”