Page 141 of My Damaged Protector

“Ian, what's going on?”

“Tell me the room number, Sarah,” he demands in a dark tone.

Chills run down my spine. Whatever happiness I was feeling over the victory against Peter disappears.

“305,” I mumble.

“Good. You'll meet me there.”

He ends the call just as I pull into the hotel’s parking lot, my heart in my throat.

What is going on?

With shaky legs, I keep my head upright as I walk inside the building. As I pass the reception, I am informed that my guest is waiting for me by the reception. I nod and force a smile, urging myself to keep moving because I know if I stop, I won't be able to continue. I drop by the reception and Ian stands up to follow me as soon as he sees me.

Finally, we make it to the front of the room. I raw in as much breath I can into my lungs, and assure myself all will be well before I enter the room. Ian follows me, leaving the door open for me to close. I try not to say anything.

He goes to sit by the edge of the bed, looking out the window that gives a clear view of the road I just took. I close the door behind me a little loudly, hoping it'll make him turn. It doesn't.

“Ian,” I whisper.

He turns at my voice, his face void of any emotion, yet somehow, I immediately know what's going on.

He knows.

Shit.

41

IAN

The lookon her face the moment our eyes meet says it all. She never planned to tell me.

I can't believe it.

“Oh my God, it's true.”

She looks away from me for a moment before she faces me again, a look of deception replacing her previously scared one.

“Don't even think about it. I know the truth!” I bark.

She flinches at my voice, so I draw in a long breath to calm myself.

“Who told you?”

Is she kidding me right now? I just found out she was going to make my unborn child collateral damage to keep her asshole of a father alive, and all she can think to ask me is who told me?

“Sarah, if I were you, I'd pick my words carefully going forward,” I say slowly.

Understanding shines in her eyes. She nods, putting a hand up in surrender. “You're right, I'm sorry. What do you want to know?”

Maybe if she'd said those words to me weeks ago and followed through on it after I gave my response, I wouldn't be so pissed at her right now.

“Two things: are you pregnant and were you going to donate bone marrow to your father knowing you could lose the baby?”

I don't exactly frame my questions prettily, which is why I'm not surprised when her face gets blanketed with fear, and she starts to panic.

“Let me explain,” she pleads, frantically moving toward me.

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