Page 178 of Nine Months to Bear
“She hasn’t.” I cut him off because I can’t let myself think about the alternative. Can’t picture Mikayla’s hands on Olivia, can’t imagine what someone with Mikayla’s training could do in the time it takes us to get there.
My phone rings. Mikayla’s name flashes on the screen.
“Don’t answer it,” Taras warns.
I answer anyway. “Mikayla.”
“Stefan.” Her voice is calm, professional. The same tone she’s used for eight years. “Dr. Aster is here to see you. Should I tell her you’re unavailable?”
Every word sounds normal. Routine. But there’s something underneath: a thread of repressed laughter that makes my skin crawl.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Of course. We’ll be waiting.”
She hangs up. I floor the accelerator, weaving through traffic like the devil himself is chasing us.
“She knows we know,” Taras mutters. “This is a trap. It’s gotta be.”
We screech into the underground garage. I’m out of the car before it fully stops, Taras right behind me. The elevator seems to take forever, each floor counting up like a countdown to hell.
Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.
My hand moves to the gun inside my jacket. If Mikayla’s hurt Olivia, if she’s so much as touched her…
There’s no telling what I’ll do next.
64
STEFAN
The office door slams against the wall as I burst through. Olivia’s there, standing at the windows with her back to me. Her spine is straight, shoulders squared, arms wrapped around herself.
“Olivia…” I clear my throat. “Where’s Mikayla?”
She doesn’t turn around. “She left. Didn’t say where she was going.”
My pulse is a slow, thudding pain in my chest. Mikayla never leaves her post without permission.
“Are you okay? Did she?—”
“Am I okay?” Olivia laughs bitterly. She still won’t look at me. “You know, Stefan, that’s a very, very interesting question.”
What the fuck?Something’s wrong. Beyond Mikayla, beyond the danger we rushed here to prevent. The air in the room feels different. It’s crackling in a way that gives me pause. Like a live wire whipping around, ready to electrocute one or both of us.
“Olivia, we need to talk about?—”
She spins around and my words die. Her face is pale except for two spots of color high on her cheeks.
But it’s her eyes that stop me cold. Those amber eyes that usually look at me with warmth, with desire, with something I’ve been too chickenshit to name—now, they burn like vats of acid about to be thrown in my face.
She crosses to my desk in three quick steps. Reaches into the bottom drawer, withdraws a notebook, and slams it down.
Mynotebook. The one with her name on it.
She throws open the cover. I see my own handwriting, the lists, the acquisition documents. Everything is there, clear as day, undeniable.
“Yes or no.”
