Page 138 of Toxic Salvation
46
VESPER
The cold, wet towel on my forehead is embarrassing enough.
The aloe vera joint cream sitting open on my bedside table makes it worse.
But having Kovan walk in while my legs are propped up on a pillow? That’s just perfect timing.
I try to swing my legs off the bed, but my eight-month belly has other plans. Everything takes twice as long now. Getting up from chairs requires strategy. Putting on shoes involves yoga poses I didn’t know existed. And try as I might, hiding evidence of my discomfort from my overprotective boyfriend has now become impossible.
“Hey, you.” I force brightness into my tone. “What are you doing home so early?”
Kovan’s gaze finds the cream. Then my elevated legs. Then my face, which probably screams guilty.
“I came to check on you.” He steps closer. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I take a breath and push myself upright. Pain shoots through my calves, and I can’t hide the wince.
“You are not fine.” He’s at my side instantly, hands on my shoulders, pushing me back down. “You need to get off your feet. Let me see them.”
“No, I’m fine, I just—” A sharp cramp cuts off my protest.
He lifts my leg before I can stop him, his fingers probing my swollen ankle. “They’re swollen. How long have you been dealing with this?”
“I haven’t?—”
“Don’t lie to me, Vesper.”
I hate how well he knows me. “A few weeks.”
“A fewweeks?” He stiffens. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”
“No. Because I knew you’d react exactly this way.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, trapping me. “I think it’s time.”
“It is not.” I try to pull my foot away, but he holds firm. “It isnottime, Kovan. I have a month left before maternity leave.”
“You have a month before your due date,” he corrects. “That doesn’t mean you work until the kid literally falls out of you.”
“Actually, that is the plan.”
“Vesper—”
“I have patients who need me!” The defensiveness in my voice surprises even me. “It’s bad enough I’m taking six months off. I’m not taking more time than absolutely necessary.”
“Look at your feet. Really look at them.”
I glance down. My ankles are swollen beyond recognition. When did that happen?
“You had a twelve-hour surgery today. Twelve hours on your feet in your condition.”
“How do you know that?”
“I get a copy of your schedule every day.”
“Oh, God.” I drop my face into my hands. “First of all, stop that. It’s an invasion of my privacy. And second?—”
