Page 23 of Inked Athena

But I don’twantto refuse. I want to thank Louisa for all of her work. I want the chef to know I’m grateful.

So, even as my stomach roils, I pinch off the smallest possible crumb of the muffin and drop it into my mouth.

Some part of me recognizes the burst of flavor. It’s buttery and sweet with a punch of spices and cinnamon. I should be crying tears of joy that someone made my favorite treat in the middle of the ocean.

Instead, my insides are churning with the desire to expel the small morsel of muffin along with everything else I’ve managed to choke down today.

“Delicious!” I chirp, swallowing a gag.

Thankfully, Louisa seems satisfied. She promises to pass the praise along to Chef and then retreats below deck to the kitchen.

As soon as she’s out of view, I launch myself out of the sunchair and sprint down the stairs to my suite.

I blow through the door, grateful Samuil isn’t inside, and use the bedpost to swing myself into the bathroom like Tarzan. I just barely manage to drop to my knees and lift the lid before everything in my stomach comes back up with a vengeance.

Several unpleasant minutes and several flushes later, I close the lid and press my cheek to the cool porcelain surface. I’m hot and sweaty and so miserable that I don’t care that I’m using a toilet lid as an ice pack. I happen to know the maid scrubs this thing twice per day. I could eat off of it without getting sick.

Which means there’s no reason at all for me tobethis sick.

Like the universe is trying to remind me where I am, the yacht lurches ever-so-slightly. But no, we’ve been here for days. Why would I only get seasick now?

I close my eyes, trying to regain my equilibrium. Nerves and anxiety and fear typically go after my heart, my lungs, my mind. My stomach has always been something I could count on.

But it’s been days of on-and-off nausea. Last night, I refused the pre-dinner cheese board, which caught Samuil’s eye. Turning down cheese is definitely a distress call in the world of Nova Pierce, and Sam is nothing if not observant. But I played it off well enough.

“I want to save room for dinner,”I explained.

Thankfully, by the time the seafood fettuccine arrived, my stomach was settled. I scarfed down my entire plate and then doubled back to the cheese board for good measure.

But I’m paying for it in spades right now.

“Why?” I moan into the crook of my arm. “Why me?”

I peel myself off the bathroom floor and trudge over to the sink.

I slept for nine hours last night, but my eyes burn with exhaustion. Every part of me feels achy and bloated.

I cross my arms over my body and wince when I accidentally graze my boob.

Because of course my boobs hurt, too. The one part of me that wasn’t used as a doggy chew toy or scraped up in my tumble down the ravine is now aching of its own accord. Can’t a girl catch a break?

I’m bending towards the sink to rinse out my mouth when, like the tumblers in a lock, the facts shift into place.

The nausea.

The soreness.

The fatigue.

For days, I’ve been attributing all of it to my escape from Ilya, the fall down the forest ravine, the antibiotics, my recovery. I’m certainly not short on things to blame.

But I shouldn’t be gettingworseas time passes, right?

I freeze, my hands gripping either side of the sink as I count back through the days and weeks and months in search of my last cycle. But it’s all hazy.

Since meeting Samuil, I’ve had more sex than I’ve ever had before. But life has also been more chaotic than it’s ever been, and I occasionally forget to take my birth control.

I lunge for my makeup bag, upending the moisturizer and accidentally turning the hot water faucet on high as I rifle through the contents. I pull out my pills and flip open the lid.

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