Page 76 of Lethal Alliance

“Thank you, Maria.” I smile at her, throwing my jacket over the chair, my mind already debating the various ways I intend to wake Darya up.

“Um, Señor Stevanovsky.” Maria doesn’t move as I approach, her hands twisting nervously. “I know it’s not my place, but I think Luc—I mean Darya. That is, Señorita Petrovsky...” She reddens, her voice trailing off as she stumbles over the names.

“Calling her Darya is fine, Maria. What is it?” I’m still smiling, but it’s an effort. My mind and body are already in bed with Darya.

“She needs to see a doctor.” She looks at me worriedly. “It isn’t right for her to be so sick and so tired. She’s barely keeping anything down at all. Even in these first months it isn’t normal to be so ill.”

“In the first months of what?” I frown. I know Darya has been exhausted, and I’ve noticed she’s not eating much, but I didn’t realize she’s been sick.

“Oh!” Maria reddens, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “I thought—I didn’t realize—I should go.” She backs hastily toward the elevator, eyes darting nervously away from mine.

“Wait.” I don’t grab her arm, but the command in my voice is clear enough, because she stops dead in front of the elevator, turning reluctantly to face me.

“In the first months of what, Maria?” I step closer to her, my heart thudding hard in my chest, my voice low. “Why is Darya so unwell?”

She bites her lip. “I found this when I cleaned her apartment just after she... left.” She reaches into the pocket of her apron and comes out holding something that looks like a pen. “I held on to it because I thought she might like to keep it, for sentimental reasons, you know? But she didn’t say anything, and I didn’t want to intrude...” Maria shifts from one foot to the other, looking desperately uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes downcast. “I thought you knew.”

The dim light of the penthouse darkens around me, the only light in the room emanating from the white stick in her hand. I can hear the slow pulse of blood through my body, a dull roar in my ears. I watch my hand reach out and pluck the stick from her hand, feeling as if I’m watching somebody else move. The stick feels cold and oddly impersonal.

“Thank you, Maria.” I know it’s me speaking, but my voice seems to come from a long way off. “I’m glad you kept it for us.” However I might feel, I must be managing a good act, because her face brightens with relief.

“I’m so happy for you both.” She smiles at me mistily, her voice catching. “With... everything that is happening, I am glad there is some good. But you must get her to a doctor, Señor Stevanovsky.” She gives me a rather stern look. “A woman in her condition must be cared for, especially in these early stages.”

“Noted.” I usher her into the elevator, the same fixed smile on my face as she babbles on about morning sickness. When the doors close on her mid-sentence, I stand in front of them for a solid ten minutes, just staring at the pink plus sign on the white stick.

I walk down the corridor with the stick gripped so tightly in my hand my nails dig into my palm. I’m strangely terrified of dropping it.

When I push open the bedroom door, Darya is curled in a tight ball at the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped around her belly. I sit on the mattress beside her, just watching her body rise and fall as she sleeps. Even in the half-light I can see the hollows in her cheeks, the dark shadows under her eyes. I wonder how I didn’t notice before.

I place the white stick gently down on the bedside table. My other hand cups Darya’s face, my thumb smoothing a loose tendril of hair back from where it’s fallen across her eyes. She stirs in her sleep, moaning softly against my hand in a way that does dangerous things to my body. She turns her lips into my palm, her eyelids cracking slightly open. “Roman.” She mouths my name sleepily, her lips curving into a smile against my hand.

My thumb travels over the bee-stung lips I adore, tracing their fullness as if I’m feeling it for the first time. “Darya. Go back to sleep,milaia. You should rest.”

My mind is jumping about disjointedly, trying to work out what to do first: get the doctor here and wake her before she’s rested, pluck her from the bed and take her directly to the hospital myself, or get my entire staff working on converting one of the lower floors to a medical suite. It’s while I’m busy wondering just how disruptive the noise of that conversion might be to Darya’s sleep that I realize she’s watching me.

“What is it?” She pushes herself up on one elbow, eyeing me worriedly. “What’s happened? Is it the girls?”

“No.” I cover her hand with my own, shaking my head in reassurance. “No, Darya, we have plans to get the girls back.”

“Tell me.” She sits up, her eyes fixed on my face, but all I can see are the way her collarbones stick out, the pallor beneath the tawny skin.

“The plans can wait.” I reach for the glass of water by her bed and hold it out to her. “Drink some of this, and then you’re going to see a doctor.”

She eyes the water uneasily. “A doctor? I’m fine, Roman. The girls—”

“I have an entire army working on getting the girls back.” My voice is more curt than I intend it to be. She frowns, and I make an effort to soften my tone when I speak again. “I will get the girls back, Darya, I promise. Right now, I’m more worried about getting you to a doctor.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. The opaque mask drops over them at the same time her hand steals to her belly.

“I’ve seen you do that with your hand a dozen times since I found you in Granada.” I nod at the glass. “Drink, Darya.”

She sips the water gingerly, eyeing me cautiously.

“I’ve seen you disappear into yourself, somewhere I can’t follow. Turn in on yourself like you’re hugging a secret.” I cup her head again, my thumb smoothing the hair back from her temple. “I thought it was the weight of the past, of fears about the Orlovs.”

She sits up properly, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, hand gripping the water, face unreadable as it has been so often lately.

“I might know exactly when to pull a gun, Darya, but when it comes to reading emotions, I’m not the most perceptive man. Maybe if I was, I wouldn’t have needed the maid to show me this.”

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