Page 144 of Salvatore

You’re in too deep.

Look what state you’re in.

I turn my attention to my flank wound—which is just a technical term for the side of my goddamn ass—andscrub, scrub, scrub. I grit my teeth. Sniff faster. Glare harder. I grow nauseous from the high-intensity workout. Then again, it probably isn’t the workout at all, the queasy feeling coming from my inability to look away from the part of my body a bare inch below my abdomen wound—the place where a tiny child grows.

One I can’t protect.

I raise my gaze to the ceiling and blink incessantly, refusing to succumb to tears.

But I’ve always wanted a family. Aproperone. With children, and in-laws, and momentous holidays.

I’ve yearned for someone to love unconditionally. To nurture and adore. Yet what I currently have is a baby I need to emotionally distance myself from.

Being a mother isn’t an option.

There’s no stubborn little girl with pigtails in my future. Or a rambunctious boy with a surly attitude like his father.

The only semblance of family Gabriel has allowed me since my emancipation are Olivia and Allison. And I suspect that’s only because he sees them as work colleagues, not soul sisters.

If he found out I was pregnant he’d have the child killed. And if he discovered Salvatore was responsible our fate would be much worse than death.

I suck in another shuddering breath, this one escaping my lungs on a sob.

I’d done so well. I’d convinced myself living within the confines of my current lifestyle was good enough. That I’d figured out Gabriel’s boundaries and could exist happily inside them.

But I want this.

I sniff.

I want this baby.

“Ivy?” Salvatore raps gently on the door. “Make yourself decent. I’m coming in.”

I can’t make myself do anything. Not stop wildly scrubbing. Not pull myself together for the sake of him seeing me half-naked and looking like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a grizzly.

The door opens and he pauses a foot inside the small bathroom, the weight of his attention raking over me in my manic state.

It’s too much—his silence, his presence.

“Hey.” His tone is etched with caution.

I tilt my chin skyward, blinking frantically at the ceiling while I continue buffing another layer of skin from my waist. There’sno sense of vulnerability. No shame of bodily exposure. Just pain and sadness.

“Stop,” he warns, stalking closer.

I don’t listen. The exertion is good. Cathartic. It helps distract me from the agonizing ache in my chest.

“Ivy,stop.” He closes in behind me, grabbing my hand.

I gasp in a deep breath, holding it tight in my throbbing lungs.

“Let it out,” he demands.

I keep blinking, frantically fighting to stop the threatening avalanche, but it’s so much worse now because his gaze is on me.

“Let it out,mi reina.”

I choke on the lump in my throat. It’s that endearment. Those stupid words that make me feel a certain way.

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