Page 107 of Inked Athena

I wake before dawn. My fingers automatically seek Sam’s warmth, but his side of the bed is cold.

I’m not worried, though. When I crane my neck to peer through the windows, I catch a glimpse of him running the dogs around the castle perimeter—his new morning ritual since Rufus and Ruby arrived.

It’s funny how quickly we’ve all settled into our rhythm. Two weeks since I cried so many happy tears that Mrs. Morris worried I’d get dehydrated and forced a literal gallon of tea down my throat, life feels like we’ve always done it this way.

Samuil runs the dogs. Grams and Mrs. Morris stroll the loch. Hope and Myles “sleep in” until second breakfast is served, though there isn’t a single soul in the castle who believes they’re doing much actual sleeping.

It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s perfect. It’s pure.

But today, everything changes.

My stomach flips at the thought. For once, it’s not morning sickness. It’s because, today, we find out if this tiny spark of life inside me is real. If it has a heartbeat. If it’s healthy.

If it’s a sign that Sam and I can create something beautiful together.

The thought sends me sprinting to the bathroom, where I promptly dry heave into the toilet. It’s the first time I’ve done that in a while.

“First ultrasound jitters?” Hope leans against the doorframe, already dressed in yoga pants and one of Myles’s old Dartmouth hoodies.

“That obvious?” I mumble, wiping my mouth as I rise back to my feet.

“Only to someone who’s known you since you tried to rescue that three-legged raccoon in tenth grade.” She hands me a cup of ginger tea. “Come on. Mrs. Morris made those little egg things you like.”

But the mini quiches—usually my favorite—sit untouched on my plate while everyone else demolishes breakfast. Even Grams, who usually picks at her food like a bird, helps herself to seconds.

Sam’s hand finds my knee under the table. “Eat,zaychik. The appointment isn’t for hours.”

I nod. “Yeah. You’re right.” But I barely manage two bites before my fork clatters to my plate. “What if something’s wrong, though? What if?—?”

“Then we’ll handle it.” His voice carries the same steady conviction that made me fall for him in the first place. “Together.”

Grams reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “That’s right, dear. And you’ve got all of us right here with you.”

The lump in my throat makes it impossible to respond, but as I look around at my family, I realize they’re right.

Whatever happens today, I’m not alone anymore.

“Anyway!” Hope claps to signal a change of subject. “Let’s talk about what’s really on everyone’s mind: wallpaper. The nursery absolutely needs a woodland theme. You know, since you two met because of a certain four-legged menace.”

Right on cue, Rufus lifts his head from where he’s sprawled at my feet and gives a lowwoof.

“Speaking of menaces,” Grams says, her eyes twinkling, “did I ever tell you about the time Nova was born? She came three weeks early, right in the middle of a blizzard. Your father had to?—”

I tense at the mention of my dad, but Sam’s fingers tighten on my knee, grounding me. The familiar weight of his hand anchors me to this moment, to this room full of people who actually love me.

“More tea, dear?” Mr. Morris swoops in with the pot before I can answer. “And a scone. You’d best finish that, or Mrs. Morris will have your head. The wee bairn needs its strength for its photo shoot today.”

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, I catch Sam watching me from the corner of my eye. The ice in his gray eyeshas melted into something molten, something that makes my breath catch.

It’s the same look he gave me that first day with Rufus, when the Great Dane knocked us both into Lake Michigan. Like he sees past all my carefully constructed walls straight to the scared girl inside who just wants someone to stay.

“One more cup,” I concede, letting Mr. Morris fill my mug. “But only because you’re all being so nice about my impending mental breakdown.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, lass,” he scolds me playfully. “You’ve got too many of us here to keep you upright.”

For a local spot in this quiet Scottish town, the clinic is surprisingly fancy.

The waiting room looks like it was plucked straight from a London magazine spread, all gleaming teak and soft, recessed lighting. But what catches my attention isn’t the décor—it’s how the receptionist’s face lights up when she sees Sam.

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