Page 142 of Salvatore

30

IVY

I keep the shock bottled…Not that it’s actual shock. It’s something else. Blindingly terrifying confirmation, maybe.

I’m pretty sure I knew the truth. Self-preservation made me ignore it.

I haven’t had a period since before my abduction—since before I slept with Salvatore. I convinced myself the absence was justifiable due to high stress, locked the traumatic thoughts into a box, and shoved that tightly closed bastard to the back of my mind with all the other trauma.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Spectacular.” I swallow against the emotional grit lining my throat. “Can I go inside now?”

It’s rude, I know. He just learned of his impending parenthood too. But I’m one sideways glance away from losing grip of my composure, and I’m not entirely sure where the impending train wreck will end up. Breakdown? Eruption? Delirium?

“Not yet. I can assume a lot of things but I’ve got questions.” He grips the steering wheel, double-fisted, white-knuckled. “Was this planned?”

I shoot him a death stare. “Excuse me.”

His eyes harden. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” My tone is high-pitched with incredulity.

“Forgive me for not being a Hallmark card of sensitivity,” he grates. “I’m asking if the sex was consensual. Did you hook up with one of Gabriel’s men on your own terms or was this forced upon you?”

Oh…of course he’d think the squatter currently taking residence in my uterus arrived due to abuse.

“Did I already kill the man responsible?” He speaks through clenched teeth. “Or do I need to make plans to return to Baltimore?”

Shit.

“Um…” I look away, dragging a hand through my tangled hair. “There’s no need to go back to Baltimore.”

How the hell do I put this—Hey, champ, you know how the pull-out method isn’t foolproof? Well, it’s even less effective when you’re in mourning over your boss’s death and forget to take the pill.

“Was it consensual?” he repeats, his anger unchecked.

I lower my head and chance a glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Yes.”

His mouth snaps shut. His nostrils flare. “Good. That’s all I need to know.”

Before I can clarify his peen was the consensual wand of deliverance, he shoves from the car, rounds the hood far too quickly for me to figure out a way to backpedal, then yanks open my door.

I’m scooped into his arms, the movement brisk but considerate. Forceful yet controlled.

Is he… jealous?

His reaction could just as easily be disgust.

All I know is that he’s clearly pissed because he’s glaring at the world as if it castrated him without anesthetic.

Blubbering words of admission poise on the tip of my tongue. Then I’m carried inside the house and the sight of my blood splattered and smudged along the hallway tile has last night’s trauma freight-training its way back to the forefront.

Salvatore remains stiff as he treks around the carnage, jaw locked, eyes cold. He takes me to my room and places me on my feet beside the bed. “I’ve arranged for Lorenzo’s private physician to be your in-home doctor. He’ll be here soon.”

I nod, attempting to acclimatize to…everything, and failing miserably.

I need space. To take my first breath of necessary isolation since being stabbed multiple times, while pregnant, and on the run from the cartel.

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