Page 141 of Salvatore

“So you hadn’t been aware of her plan?” Her voice is barely audible.

Aware of her plan?

Aware of herfuckingplan?

“I hadn’t been aware you’d stepped foot in the fucking basement, Ivy. What do you mean, was I aware of her plan?”

She hangs her head. “I don’t know. I just…”

“Just what?” I take two-second glances at the traffic in between trying to read what’s going on behind that defeated expression of hers. “Did you think I had something to do with you getting stabbed? Is that why you begged me not to hurt you last night?”

Her head remains downcast.

Jesus fucking Christ. Thatisthe reason.

She thought I wanted her dead. And I can’t even blame her for the fucked up assumption because life has rolled her so many goddamn times I’d feel the same way if our positions were switched.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my hatred for the world growing far beyond the insurmountable height it had already reached. “Did she say something to make you think that?”

Ivy shakes her head and scrunches her nose with a sniff. “Can we talk about this later? The anesthesia still has me in a chokehold.”

Just like her misery is having an effect on me.

I force my focus back to the road before impatience can get the better of me. I want to know everything. Why she was in the basement. How she could get close enough for Adena to attack.

The questions pummel me, each unanswered strike making my fury rise. But for ten quiet minutes, the world narrows to the sound of tires humming against asphalt and the whisper of Ivy’s gown when she shifts positions while the first rays of sunrise paint the horizon.

If she thinks the conversation about my mother was unsettling, I have a feeling the next topic is going to be a hell of a lot more unfortunate.

“The doctor said your surgery went well.” I break the silence as I pause before the opening gates of Lorenzo’s property. “They were worried about an intestinal perforation but there was only a graze.”

She stares straight ahead and nods, the movement slow and detached. “I suppose I should’ve asked about that already.”

“Your other wounds were cleaned and sutured. You had six in total.”

Her hollow nodding continues during the slow drive onto the property, her hands tangled in her lap as she picks at a fingernail.

I pull to a stop in front of the mansion, and she’s already busy unclasping her belt and reaching for the door.

“Wait.” I cut the engine. “The doctor mentioned something else.”

She stills, continuing to starve me of her attention, her chin hitching incrementally.

“He said you had concerns.”

Her posture straightens. Again, it’s slow, a gradual motion while her lips close.

I swear to God she holds her breath.

I release my belt and scrub an agitated palm over my mouth. “He wanted you to know your injuries weren’t a reproductive threat.” I don’t know how to do this—the comforting shit, the compassion—especially when her stiffness doesn’t falter, her chest remains unmoving. I should’ve told the doctor to relay the information while I focused on things I’m good at, like pissing off my family or starting shit that doesn’t need to be started. “They did blood tests.”

“And?” she whispers, the bat of her lashes quickening, her olive complexion losing its healthy hue.

I wait, hoping she’ll look at me, needing to read her eyes instead of the rigidity in her profile. But she doesn’t glance my way. She continues staring at the mansion, pretending she’s fearless, utilizing a facade I once thought was real.

Now that fortitude is flimsy at best, and somehow her fragility only makes me want her more.

“Ivy, you’re pregnant.”

---