Page 114 of Nine Months to Bear
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m not. That’s the only way you know it’s real.”
When I reach out to touch him, Stefan doesn’t move to reciprocate. He stares down at our joined hands. His skin is rough, calloused from years of violence, but the heat it emanates is soft and tender.
“If we do this,” he says slowly, “if we bring a child into this world… I won’t abandon them. Whatever happens between us, whatever goes wrong—I’ll be there. You have my word.”
45
OLIVIA
The silk sheets stick to my skin like a second layer of sweat. I kick them off, but a minute later, I’m shivering so bad that I pull them back up.
Too hot. Too cold. Too damp. Too dry.
Toosomething, that’s for damn sure.
Stefan’s yacht rocks gently on the waves, but my body feels like it’s caught in a hurricane. Every nerve ending is alive, electric, screaming for something I refuse to name.
Go back to sleep, I order myself.
My body just laughs at the suggestion.
I’ve been lying here for what feels like hours, replaying our conversation from earlier. Stefan’s promise about our child.
I’ll be there. You have my word.
God, I’m so screwed.
Well, not literally. Not tonight, anyway. Stefan disappeared into his office after dinner, claiming he had to attend to some urgent business calls.
I assume that’s code for “I need to violently dismember someone” or “time to launder millions through offshore accounts” or whatever. Y’know, normal business stuff.
I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. Unfortunately for me, it smells like him. Everything on this damn boat smells like him.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
I’m a grown woman. A doctor. I have two degrees from Harvard and a thriving—okay, struggling—fertility clinic. I should not be writhing around in bed like a teenager with her first crush.
Except it’s not a crush.
It’s worse.
It’s whatever you call it when your body craves someone so badly it physically hurts. When you can’t think about anything except the way their hands feel on your skin. When you’re perfectly willing to overlook the fact that they almost definitely have bodies buried in concrete somewhere.
Chemistry, my analytical brain supplies.
Insanity, my survival instinct counters.
But what’s really going to drive me insane is tossing and turning here for even a millisecond longer. I’ll get up and go stargaze or something. Anything beats this damp, sweaty straitjacket of a bedsheet.
I walk down the hall, a playful breeze kicking up the hem of my robe. A thin line of light glows beneath Stefan’s office door at the end of the corridor. Male voices drift through—Stefan’s low rumble and another I recognize as Taras, crackling via speaker phone.
On second thought, I should go back to bed. I definitely should not go snoop. Didn’t I do that already? Didn’t it turn out pretty badly? Didn’t I learn my lesson?
… Guess not.
Because my feet carry me forward anyway.
