Page 110 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with my possible morning sickness. “Who have you been talking to?”
“No one, dear. Just an old woman’s ramblings.” She shooed me toward the door like I was an overstaying houseguest. “Go rest. You look exhausted.”
I fled to my apartment and locked the door behind me, a hollow gesture of security that wouldn’t stop anyone who really wanted in. Especially not them. Whoever they were—these mysterious “friends” Mrs. Patel seemed to know more about than I did.
The pregnancy test box felt radioactive in my pocket. I pulled it out, holding it at arm’s length with trepidation.
“This is what rock bottom looks like,” I said, examining the cheerful pink packaging with its nauseating promises of ‘accuracy’ and ‘early detection.’ “Standing in your bathroom contemplating peeing on a stick because your coworker thinks your morning puking schedule is suspicious.”
My reflection looked back at me from the bathroom mirror, pale and hollow-eyed. Not exactly the “glowing” Mrs. Patel had mentioned.
“You’re not pregnant,” I told my reflection firmly. “Your body’s just being dramatic.”
The instructions were simple enough that even panic-brain could follow them. I managed the sample collection without incident, set the test on the counter, and backed away with apprehension.
Timer set for three minutes, I sat on the edge of the bathtub, knee bouncing uncontrollably.
Three minutes. One hundred eighty seconds to contemplate how spectacularly I’d fucked up my life. I tried to focus on practical matters, always my fallback when emotions threatened to overwhelm me.
If positive: I’d need prenatal care. Money. A better job than dishwashing. A safer apartment.
If negative: I’d celebrate by never having sex again. Maybe become a monk. Did they accept omegas in monasteries? Probably not.
The timer chimed. I stared at my phone, unable to move.
“Just look at it,” I ordered myself. “It’s negative. It has to be negative. The universe can’t possibly hate you enough to make you pregnant with a mafia alpha’s baby.”
I stood on legs that felt disconnected from my body and forced myself to look down at the plastic stick.
Two pink lines stared back at me. Unmistakable. Undeniable.
I grabbed the box, frantically scanning the instructions again. One line: not pregnant. Two lines: pregnant.
Two fucking lines.
“No,” I whispered, the word barely audible even to my own ears. “No fucking way.”
I blinked hard, hoping the second line might disappear. It didn’t. It sat there, pink and accusatory, a permanent record of the most catastrophic consequence possible.
My knees buckled. The cold tile floor rushed up to meet me as I slid down the bathroom wall, test still clutched in my hand like a lottery ticket for the world’s worst prize.
“This can’t be happening,” I said to the empty bathroom. “I can’t be pregnant. It was one heat cycle. The odds are?—”
The odds. Right. Because I’d always been so lucky.
A laugh bubbled up, sharp and hysterical, before morphing into a sob that felt like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside me. Then another. And another. Until I was curled around myself on the bathroom floor, crying with an intensity that frightened even me.
Pregnant. With a mafia alpha’s baby. Possibly three different alphas’ baby, if that was even biologically possible. A child that would forever tie me to men who had seen me at my most vulnerable, who had claimed me in ways I still couldn’t think about without blushing, who had promised to hunt me down.
Men whose scent still made me ache with want. Whose touch I still dreamed about. Whose child was now growing inside me.
The practical part of my brain tried desperately to regain control, to assess the situation with something resembling rationality. I had no money. No support system beyond a well-meaning landlady. No way to provide for a child on my own.
“What am I going to do?” I asked the empty bathroom, my voice breaking. “What the actual fuck am I going to do?”
I scrambled to my feet, suddenly desperate for something familiar, something safe. My body moved on autopilot, carrying me to the bedroom where I collapsed onto my bed. My hands trembled as they reached for the pillows that had appeared mysteriously over the past month—the ones that smelled of cedar and winter pine, cinnamon and warm vanilla, fresh rain and cedar. The ones that haunted my dreams with memories of ice-blue, vivid green, and stormy gray eyes.
I buried my face in them before my brain could override the impulse. The effect was immediate and devastating—my racing heart slowed, my skin prickled with recognition, something primal inside me responding instantly. Their scents wrapped around me completely, holding me captive even in their absence.
