Page 76 of Velvet Chains
C’mon, Laura. You’re a grown-ass woman. You can handle a simple text message.
I type out one more message, my heart pounding in my chest.
OK. Be safe.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then toss my phone onto the bed like it’s burned me.
I do a full 360 turn, my nerves getting the best of me. Did that sound too casual? Too uncaring?
Fuck, why is this making me so nervous?
I pick up my phone again, my fingers flying across the screen.
I mean, not that you need me to tell you to be safe. You’re a big, bad mafia boss. You can handle yourself. Obviously.
I hit send, then immediately regret it. I sound like an idiot. A rambling, insecure idiot.
I’m about to type out another message to try to salvage some shred of my dignity when my phone buzzes in my hand.
It’s a message from Victor.
I stare at the screen, my heart in my throat. Slowly, I open it, bracing myself for his response.
I always handle myself, little firecracker. But it’s cute that you care.
I feel a blush creep up my neck, a warmth spreading through my chest. He thinks I’m cute. Or at least, he thinks my concern is cute.
“Grrrroooowl.”My stomach grumbles loudly as if it’s personally offended that I haven’t fed it in the last hour.
I glance at the time, realizing it’s almost evening.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, rubbing my belly. “I hear you. No need to get your panties in a twist.”
I swear, ever since I started suspecting I might be pregnant, my appetite has been insatiable. It’s like I’m constantly hungry, and no amount of food seems to satisfy me.
I glance down at my stomach, still flat-ish but feeling somehow different. I’ve been nauseous for days, and my breasts are so tender I can barely stand to wear a bra.
Does Victor even like a girl with a bit of extra?
Shit!
I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. Now is not the right time to care what he thinks about my curves, not when there are more pressing matters at hand.
Like the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant.
Case in point: just two hours ago, I devoured an entire plate of pasta, a side salad, and a basket of breadsticks. And now, my stomach is acting like I’ve been starving it for days.
But as much as I want to raid the kitchen, there’s something else I need to take care of first.
I need to get my hands on a pregnancy test, stat.
But how?
It’s not like I can just waltz out of here and head to the nearest drugstore. I’m practically a prisoner in this house, with guards watching my every move.
Just as I’m about to head out the door in search of sustenance and maybe a clever plan to get that pregnancy test, there’s a knock.
“Zhena bol’shogo bossa,” a voice calls out.
