Page 199 of Filthy Promises

The world narrows to tiny sensations. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear. His palms lifting me up, holding me close.

There are gasps, concerned murmurs, but they fade into background noise. All I can focus on is the growing pain and the warm wetness between my legs and the absolute, blinding terror that I might be losing our child.

Vince’s car is already waiting outside, engine running. Arkady holds the door open as Vince slides into the back with me still cradled in his arms.

“Hospital,” he orders Vasily, who’s seated behind the wheel. “Now.”

I clutch the lapels of his suit jacket. It’s a summer evening, balmy and warm, but I’m freezing in a way I’ve never frozen before.

“It hurts,” I whimper. “Vince…”

“I know, my heart,” he says. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”

His face is a stone mask of control, but his eyes—those ice-blue eyes that have haunted me for years—are wild with fear.

Real, raw, undisguised terror.

He’s not pretending.

He’s fuckingafraid.

Another pang strikes like a thunderbolt. I want to bite it back because I want Vince’s face to ease once again into the smile that melted me just a few short hours ago, but I can’t.

“Faster,” Vince growls at Vasily, who somehow coaxes even more speed from the already racing vehicle.

“What if—?” I can’t bring myself to finish the thought.

“No,” he cuts in firmly. “Don’t think like that. You’re both going to be fine.”

He sounds so certain that for a moment, I believe him.

Then—another gush of blood, another spike of pain, and that fragile belief crumbles.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. “Our wedding day— I ruined?—”

“Stop.” His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing away tears. “Nothing is ruined. Nothing that matters.”

The car screeches to a halt outside the hospital’s emergency entrance. Vince doesn’t wait for help—he’s out the door with me in his arms before the orderlies can even reach us.

“My wife is pregnant,” he barks at the first medical professional he sees. “She’s bleeding.”

Everything blurs into watercolor smears after that.

A wheelchair. Green walls.

Questions I can barely focus enough to answer.

The bright fluorescent lights of an exam room.Beep, beep.

Vince’s hand in mine, steady and strong.

Then a doctor—middle-aged, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense manner—passes an ultrasound wand across my belly.

“The good news,” she reports after a moment that feels like eternity, “is that your baby has a strong heartbeat.”

The sound fills the room—quick, rhythmic, miraculous. I sob with relief and clutch Vince’s hand tighter to my chest.

“And the bad news?” Vince grits out.

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