Vik
CHAPTER TWELVE
Iwake up with a sudden, violent shift from a deep sleep to hyper-awareness hitting me like a physical blow.
One second, I’m dead to the world, buried in the heavy, dreamless sleep that only comes with Romy by my side, and the next, my eyes are snapping open.
The spot beside me is cold, the sheets crumpled and empty.
Then I hear her.
Romy warned me, and it’s right on time. I’m pissed at myself at the harsh reminder she’s done this alone, and then add to the wave of guilt that sickens me, Christ, I really fucked up.
I don’t have time to dwell on the asshole I’ve been; Romy needs me.
I throw the sheets aside, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and spur into action.
My hand instinctively reaches for my phone on the nightstand only to remember it’s in my pants that are in the living room somewhere.
I’d have liked to look up what I can do to help, but since that’s not in the cards right now, I do one better and walk into the bathroom.
The sound of her distress grows louder when I push open the door.
Romy is on her knees in front of the toilet, pale hands gripping the porcelain bowl, her shoulders shaking violently as another dry heave racks her small frame.
Her hair is a tangled, wild mess, clinging to the damp sweat on the back of her neck.
She looks so damn fragile, so fucking small, and there’s not a single fucking thing I can do to prevent this for her.
Well, maybe not get her pregnant again, but even that thought has me pausing my thoughts.
Because there’s nothing more I want in this world than little Romys running around.
I walk in silently and step over to the sink, grab a clean washcloth from the open shelving, turn on the cold water, and soak it.
Once I wring it out, ensuring it’s cool but not dripping wet, I move to Romy’s side.
I kneel on the hard tile beside her and carefully gather her hair, pulling the long strands away, and drape it on her neck.
She flinches lightly at the contact, a low, exhausted groan escapes her lips, and she attempts to lean away, pushing a weak hand against my chest.
“Go away, Vik,” she whispers, raw and raspy. “Don’t look at me like this, please.”
“Not happening.” My voice leaves no room for argument, and even if she did try to bicker her way through this conversation, I still wouldn’t leave.
There’s a glass on the counter near the sink and, without leaving her side, I fill it with water.
“Here, rinse and spit.” She hesitates, then attempts to take it from my hand.
I noticed the tremble in her hands, so instead of allowing her to do the work, I hold it for her while she does as I suggested.
“I think I’m done.” She leans back, and I support her with a quick maneuver.
Once her breathing steadies a bit, I stand up, bend down, slip one arm securely beneath her knees and the other around her lower back, and I scoop her up bridal style.
Romy doesn’t fight me, she’s too exhausted.
She lets her head fall against my shoulder, her palm pressing into my chest as I carry her back into the bedroom, laying her down gently on the mattress and pulling the covers over her bare body as her head sinks into the pillow.
“Thank you.” She lets out a long, ragged exhale, eyes fluttering shut.
“Always. I’ll be right back.” I press a kiss to her forehead, watching over her for longer than I’m sure is necessary.
Once I feel okay with leaving her, I move to the living room.
Our clothes are still strewed everywhere, and it takes me a minute to sift through the chaos to find my boxers and phone.
I go about picking up the pieces, folding my own and then hers, though technically, the shirt she had on is also mine.
I slip into my briefs, snag my phone, and awaken the screen, bypassing a wall of unread text messages from my team.
They can wait. The whole damn empire can pound sand for all I care right now.
I open the browser and type with a fierce, impatient urgency and search for anything that will give her relief: How to help pregnancy afternoon sickness.
The results quickly load; I scan the bullet points, my eyes darting over medical jargon.
Small, frequent meals, avoid having an empty stomach, and bland foods.
I then zero in on the immediate remedies: crackers, carbonated soda such as ginger ale or Sprite.
An honorable mention of plenty of rest, which I doubt she’s gotten enough of.
I walk into the kitchen, needing to see what she has.
The floor is cool against my bare feet, and if it weren’t for Romy sweating moments ago, I’d be tempted to kick up the thermostat a few degrees.
I open the pantry doors, it’s nearly empty: cereal, some pasta, a bag of flour, and some cooking oil.
I do the same with the refrigerator, and it’s a barren wasteland: a carton of almond milk that’s near its expiration date, a jar of pickles, and a couple of shriveled lemons.
“Damn it, Romy,” the curse passes my lips.
I’m not sure if she’s been too sick to get groceries, too exhausted, or what.
But this ends now. I open my phone since it went into sleep mode, open up the delivery app I use far too much, and place an order, paying extra for it to be here within thirty minutes.
I add three boxes of saltine crackers, bread, butter, bananas, a twelve-pack of ginger ale, and the same for Sprite.
I pay the express delivery fee, adding a massive tip to ensure the driver doesn’t waste a fucking second.
I head back to the bedroom, needing to make sure Romy is okay.
“Food and drinks are on the way,” I murmur, making my way to where she’s lying down, her eyes open, bloodshot from the earlier exertion.
“Vik,” she moans. I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.
“Breathe, beautiful. We’ll get you through this.
” Her eyes close, she sinks deeper into my hand, and I massage her scalp even when my phone buzzes.
The notification on the screen blinks, showing the delivery app driver started the order.
I go through the other messages since one in particular catches my eye, a string of increasingly hostile texts from Alex.
Alex: Vik, if you hurt Romy because of a stupid misunderstanding, I will personally ensure your life becomes a living hell.
Alex: I mean it. She’s dealing with enough right now.
Alex: I’m talking I’ll rearrange your calendar for all of eternity. Million-dollar deals, poof, those appointments won’t be found for years to come.
Alex: Answer your damn phone!
A wry smile touches my lips, and I type back a rapid response.
Vik: Settle down. She’s fine. I’m with her.
Vik: Do me a favor, please. Place a massive grocery and catering order of whatever foods Romy has been eating or craving recently. Have it sent to her apartment as soon as possible.
A few seconds pass before three dots appear, then vanish, only to reappear again.
Alex: Did hell freeze over? Because ‘do me a favor’ and ‘please’ aren’t exactly in your vocabulary, boss.
Vik: Can it, Alex. We’ll call it even since you lied to me about her moving out of state.
Alex: I didn’t lie per se. I outmaneuvered you. But fine, I’ll get started on lunch and the grocery order. Take care of my girl.
I don’t bother replying. I toggle the phone to silent, completely severing us from the rest of the world before tossing the device on the nightstand.
My business can wait. My clients can wait.
Nothing matters more than the woman sleeping in this bed and the tiny life growing inside her.
I shift Romy to the middle of the mattress, placing my arm behind her neck as the palm of my hand moves beneath the covers, landing right on her lower abdomen.
She makes a soft, contended sound in her sleep, shifting closer to my warmth, and I soak in the moment, needing her as much as she needs me.