Page 46 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I can’t stay here.
The need for movement claws at my skin, so I force myself upright. The effort makes me dizzy, but I grit my teeth and push through it. My nightdress falls around my knees in loose folds. I grab a shawl from the end of the bed—soft cashmere, ivory, barely touched—and wrap it around my shoulders with unsteady fingers.
The mirror catches my reflection as I pass, and I hesitate.
I look pale. Not just tired, but washed out. My cheeks are colorless. My lips dry. My eyes, usually so sharp in their suspicion, seem almost glassy. I blink once. Twice. It doesn’t help.
Still, I walk to the door.
The hallway is quiet. A few maids move down the corridor at the far end, tending to whatever endless tasks keep this house running. They glance at me, surprised to see me up. I never leave the room at night. They know that.
I don’t speak to them. I just walk past, shawl pulled tight across my chest. I head toward the garden doors at the back of the hall. I need air. I need the cold. I need anything other thanthe press of that bed and the ache in my stomach and the silence that won’t stop humming in my ears.
The handle is cool in my palm.
I open the door slowly.
The night greets me with sharp brightness. Too bright. The moonlight is silver and loud, reflecting off the stone and glass like a mirror held too close. I blink against it. My vision swims.
Something shifts in my stomach. Not pain. Pressure. My fingers tighten on the doorframe.
I take one step out onto the terrace. The breeze brushes my skin. It’s cooler than I expected. My legs feel strange beneath me, too light and too heavy at the same time. The scent of flowers, usually calming, turns my stomach.
“Mrs. Sharov?” a voice asks gently behind me.
I don’t turn. I don’t want to see the concern on her face. “I’m fine,” I say, or try to. It comes out hoarse. “Just a headache.”
The steps behind me pause. “Do you need the doctor?”
“No,” I mutter, waving one hand weakly, “I just need—”
The words fall apart. The world tilts.
I feel the stone disappear beneath my feet. The brightness explodes behind my eyes. I sway once, twice. The last thing I see is the edge of the garden and the woman’s face twisting in alarm.
Then nothing.
I’m not sure how long it’s been when voices wake me up.
They’re muffled at first, like I’m underwater. Then sharper. Frantic. I feel movement—footsteps around me, hands on my arms. Someone touches my face. Cool fingers press against my neck. My eyes flutter open, but the light above me is too bright. It burns.
“Mrs. Sharov, can you hear me?”
The voice is female. Familiar. One of the maids?
My lips part, but no sound comes out. My throat is too dry. My chest feels heavy. I blink slowly, trying to understand where I am.
The ceiling sways.
I see flashes of white: aprons, gloves, sleeves moving too fast. One woman kneels beside me, frowning. Another leans over my shoulder, whispering something urgent. Their hands flutter between my wrist and the pulse at my neck, checking, counting.
“She’s burning up.”
“She needs a doctor now.”
“Go. Call him, and get Mr. Sharov. Tell him she collapsed.”
The name lands like a bell in my fogged mind.
