Page 65 of Sin Wager
"Fine women don't spend twenty minutes throwing up in cheap motel bathrooms." He moves closer, and I smell his cigarette smoke on his clothes, nicotine on his breath. I've nevernoticed it before, but maybe he is smoking now out of stress. God knows I could use a cigarette at times, and I'm not a smoker. "Are you sick? Injured? Do you need medical attention?"
The questions come rapid-fire, concern breaking through his usual control. Last night changed him too, stripped away layers of distance he put between us to reveal the man underneath. He cares about my wellbeing.
"I'm not sick." The words catch in my throat, truth trying to force its way out. "Not the way you mean."
His eyes narrow, studying my face. "Explain." I feel exposed and vulnerable. My legs shake and my shoulders sag.
I sit on the bed, needing solid ground beneath me when I speak. My hands find each other in my lap, fingers intertwining to stop their trembling.
"I found out a while ago… before everything exploded." I take a breath and meet his gaze. "I'm pregnant."
Those simple syllables rearrange the entire world. I watch him process the information, see his mind working through implications and consequences as his expression shifts.
His face reveals nothing at first, professional mask holding firm against emotional assault. But his hands clench into fists at his sides, knuckles going white under the strain. I can't tell if he's angry or scared, or if perhaps there is a hint of joy flickering in his eyes.
"How long have you known?"
"A few weeks, maybe? I took the test twice to be sure."
"And you said nothing." He doesn't sound mad, but that doesn't sound like a question, either. I don't even know how to interact with him anymore. Misha isn't just a sweet, kind, wealthy older man. He's a brutal killer. I've seen him with my own eyes take the life of at least three men now. What's to say he won't just slit my throat with that knife right now? My eyes trail over to it as I swallow hard.
"I was afraid." The admission tastes bitter. "Afraid of what it would mean, afraid of how it would change things. Afraid of your reaction…"
He moves to the other side of bed and sits facing me, elbows resting on his knees. The distance between us feels vast despite only three feet of stained bedding.
"Who else knows?"
"No one. Not my father, not Elvin, not Sonya. Just me." I pause, gathering courage for the next words. "And now you."
He stares at his hands, processing information he must be in shock from. I mean, it's not hard to imagine how this happened. We weren't exactly cautious about it.
His head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, I see surprise in his eyes, and fear, and rage directed at circumstances beyond his control. Then he stands and rounds the end of the bed to me in three quick strides. His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with gentleness I never expected. He kneels, searching my face with eyes that seem to see right through me.
"You're certain?"
"Yes," I say, nodding.
He pulls me against him, arms wrapping around my shoulders, face buried in my hair. I feel his chest rise and fall with controlled breathing, feel the tension in muscles trained for violence.
"I won't lose you," he whispers into my ear. "Either of you. Anyone who tries will die screaming." I feel his embrace tighten so much it almost hurts, and I believe him.
Throwing my arms around him, I hold him tighter, letting myself believe for a moment that love can triumph over all of this. But reality crashes back down around me when he whispers, "I have to get you away from here."
"No," I tell him firmly. "Misha, running from this will only make me look like a coward. And Sonya will never stop looking. I'm not leaving my family behind. I'm not leaving…"
Tears are welling up, my body trembling with deep emotion I can't even begin to name. And Misha's eyes grow stormy. "But it's not safe for you here…"
"So you use me like a pawn to draw them out until you learn I'm carrying your child, and now you want me to leave?" Indignance rises up in my chest. "No. I'm not leaving. We fight together or we're not together at all."
"Damn woman," he grunts, but his hands grip the sides of my head hard. "Why are you so stubborn?" He sounds angry now, or frustrated with me. And though I can't move my head because his grip is too strong, I can at least smile.
"Would you love me the same if I were any way else?" I ask timidly, and his lips crush against mine with a force I'm not ready for.
His kiss is hard enough to bruise, a clash of teeth and breath that steals whatever argument I had left. His grip slides from my jaw down my throat, holding me there as if daring me to fight him. I push at his chest, not to break free but to make him earn every inch of control.
“You drive me insane,” he growls against my mouth, his breath hot with smoke and rage. “You keep secrets, you talk back, and now you carry my child—mine—and still you argue about staying in this cesspool.”
His hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back so his mouth drags down my throat. My pulse hammers against his tongue as he sucks hard enough to mark me. I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. He leans in, bracing one hand on the bed beside me, his chest hovering close enough that I can feel the heat of him while I sit rigidly on the mattress.
