Page 53 of The Heir
"It's June 14th," she replies calmly.
"That doesn't mean anything!" I flap my hands exasperatedly. "I have no idea how long we were in that fucking prison—I have no idea when we got here—I don't know fucking shit!"
Rebecca's eyes widen at my mention of the prison, but she quickly schools her expression to neutrality. "That's okay. We can figure this out. Did you two—" She motions to Dante and me. "—have unprotected sex, like, ever?"
"Of course, we did," Dante whispers. "My god—Melody, we've wanted this for so long…."
"Oh! Wonderful! What a happy surprise, then?" Rebecca smiles.
He's right. We did want this. It started with him, but then… I don't know, it was just soinfectious. And by the time Ella had Helena and me trapped in her basement, I wanted nothing more than to tell him about our little bundle of joy. But Ella crushed it. Ella crushed me—and that hidden desire.
What if it happens again? Ella's still alive—we think—and she's more powerful than ever. Anxietyfloods my veins, and the heart monitor sounds the alarm. Fuck. What if I can't do this? What if we can't do this?
What if Ella kills it again?
"Oh, honey—you're okay!" Rebecca soothes. "It's okay. I know, needles are scary."
Needles? Who gives a flying fuck about needles? But I wince all the same as she inserts the IV into the crook of my arm. The little pinch temporarily distracts me from my doom spiral. I watch with bated breath as she flushes the little spurt of blood in the tubing away with saline. She smiles calmingly as she hangs another bag of saline, along with… what I assume is some kind of nutrient. I don't know. Vitamins? Minerals?
Does it matter?
"Pregnant, again…." I mumble.
"Again? How many do you have?" Rebecca cheerily asks.
I freeze. Dante sucks in a breath. Rebecca tenses, then looks at me with a pitying expression. "Oh. I'm sorry."
"Do we know if the fetus is healthy?" I ask, but my voice sounds far away. Like I'm watching a movie with a dog-shit camera operator.
"From just a blood test? Yeah, we have no reason to believe otherwise. Um, but if that's a concern based on prior… events, I—well, it'll probably be best if Dr. Martinez takes a look."
I want this fetus to be healthier than every other fetus in the history of humanity. But I can't say that, not out loud. I'm terrified I'll jinx it. I'll jinxme. I'll do something, or say something, to curse myself. Sucking in a shuddering breath, I focus all of my attention on the constant drip of saline. Every few seconds, another droplet falls from the bag.
Dante and Rebecca are talking about something—probably me, let's be real—but I can't hear them. I can only hear the whooshing of my pulse. I can hear the gentledripfrom my IV bag. I can hear the fan whirring from another room. I can hear mumbled conversation in the hall, but I can't understand it. Spanish, probably. Fucking ridiculous that my bio-dad (wherever the hell he is) was from Spain, but I only know enough to apologize and ask where the bathroom is.
If… if we make it out of this, I'm learning Spanish. I'm teaching the baby. Dante's going to learn, too. I've decided that for him. If he has other ideas, he can take them up with me.
For the first time in a while, I grin. The idea of squabbling with Dante makes mehappy. I love the way he keeps his cool but has a few tells when he's trying to hold it together. Those tattooed hands running down his face or through his hair—the image flashes in my mind, and I smilewider.
I don't know if we'll make it out of this alive. But god, I hope we do.
"My love?" Dante's compassionate voice draws me from my thoughts. "What are you thinking?"
"We have to learn Spanish," I whisper.
After I begged Rebecca to let me take a shower, she reluctantly removed the IV from my arm and pointed me to the small—but functional—adjoining bathroom. Steam creates little beads of water on the pale yellow tiles. The towel she gave me is nowhere near as luxurious as the towels Dante keeps in our home, but after weeks (months?) of captivity in the abandoned prison?
This is heaven. They even gave me a cheap, little disposable razor to shave with. I let out a contented sigh as the water washes away weeks of dirt and filth. A tiny bar of soap sits on the wall-mounted tray, and I eagerly rip open the packaging. I don't even care about the little plastic wrapper. Who knew hospitals had hotel-style soap bars?
The suds leave a squeaky film on my skin, but I don't care. Anything is better than stewing in my own filth. I can't believe Ella kept us like that forweeks.I'm still not entirely sure how long we were there, and Dante doesn'tseem to know, either. I could smell myself for the first week or so, but eventually went nose blind to it. To me. I shudder against the heated water raining down on me.
Never again. Never fucking again.
And now… I have a baby to think about. Again. As much as I hate to admit it, fear makes a nest in my heart. It's a familiar fear—what if myconditionmakes me a terrible mother? What if I pass on my fucked-up genes to this kid? What if Ella strikes again?
Even worse, what if Ella lies in wait? What if she disappears into the shadows for months, years even, and rears back up? What if she kills me and Dante, leaving our baby as an orphan?
A hot tear slips down my cheek, but I try to ignore it as I shampoo my grimy hair. My vision blurs as the thought takes root, and more tears well up. I can't let that happen. I don't care if I'm pregnant—Ella's going to die. She's going to die before the baby gets here. I have to do this. I have to do this for me, for Dante, and for our… whatever this kid ends up being.
