Page 47 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

Our voices have risen to shouts, with neither of us backing down. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness washes over me. The world tilts alarmingly, and I stumble backward.

“Phoebe?” Mikhail’s angry expression shifts to concern.

I try to speak, but the words won’t come. My vision blurs.

“Phoebe. What’s wrong?” Mikhail’s voice sounds distant.

I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision as the world spins. Masha whines softly, pressing her warm body against my leg. I tightly grip the railing, struggling to stay upright.

“Phoebe?” His face swims into focus, and he’s clearly worried. “What’s wrong?”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. A wave of nausea washes over me, and I clamp my lips shut, swallowing hard. “I need to sit down,” I manage to croak out.

He puts an arm around my waist, supporting me as he guides me to a nearby lounge chair. The cushions are soft beneath me when I sink into them, grateful for the stability.

“I’m calling the doctor,” he says, his voice tight with worry.

I want to protest, to tell him I’m fine, but another bout of dizziness hits me. I close my eyelids, focusing on taking deep breaths.

Time becomes fluid. I’m vaguely aware of Mikhail speaking urgently into his phone, of crew members rushing about, and of Masha’s soothing weight as she settles at my feet. The sun’s warmth on my face is at odds with the chill that seems to have settled in my bones.

“The doctor will be here soon,” he says moments later, resting his hand lightly on my shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

I crack open one eye, squinting up at him. “Like I’m on a merry-go-round that won.”

He doesn’t smile at my weak attempt at humor. Instead, his frown deepens. “When was the last time you ate?”

I try to think back, but the events of the past few days blur together. “I’m not sure. Yesterday, maybe?”

He mutters something in Russian that sounds like a curse. “I’ll have the chef prepare something light. You need to eat.”

As he turns to leave, I grab his wrist. “Wait.” We stare at each other, and for a second, all the anger and hurt between us fades away, replaced by a shared concern. “Stay. Please.”

He nods, settling into a chair beside me. We sit in silence, the gentle lapping of waves against the yacht’s hull the only sound. Despite everything, his presence is oddly reassuring.

The wait for the doctor seems interminable. A crew member brings a tray of crackers and ginger ale, which I nibble on half-heartedly. Mikhail’s phone buzzes incessantly, but he ignores it, his gaze never leaving me.

Finally, the distinctive whir of helicopter blades breaks the quiet. Mikhail stands, his posture tense. “The doctor’s here. I’ll bring him to you.”

Minutes later, a distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair approaches, medical bag in hand. “Miss MacKenzie? I’m Dr. Falkav. Mr. Sokolov asked me to examine you.”

I nod, sitting up straighter. “Thank you for coming.”

Dr. Falkav’s examination is thorough and professional. He asks questions about my symptoms, takes my vitals, and draws blood for testing. Throughout it all, Mikhail hovers nearby, his face an inscrutable mask.

“I’d like to run a few more tests,” says Dr. Falkav, packing up his equipment, “But based on your symptoms and the initial results, I have a suspicion about what might be causing this.”

My stomach clenches with anxiety. “What is it?”

Dr. Volkov glances at Mikhail, then back to me. “Miss MacKenzie, is there any chance you could be pregnant?”

The question hits me like a physical blow. My mind races, calculating dates, and reminding me I took the morning-after pill. It’s mostly effective but not completely, and my cycle started sooner than I’d expected and was only a day long. I’d thought it was just a side effect of the pills, but... “I... I don’t know. Maybe?”

Mikhail inhales sharply beside me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.

Dr. Falkav nods. “I’ll have you provide a sample. We can get the results of this test now, but it will be a few days for the blood work. We should have those results shortly.”

I excuse myself, feeling shaky but able to walk, clutching a specimen cup. I return a few minutes later, handing it wordlessly to the doctor, who moves to a nearby table and opens his bag to remove a foil packet that resembles what I’ve seen in the stores.

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