Page 39 of Nine Months to Love
“Terrifying implies I had the luxury of feeling scared.” I plate the fish and drizzle the sauce over it. “I didn’t have that luxury.”
I slide the plate across the island to her, along with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. She takes a bite, and I watch her face transform. Eyes closing in pleasure, a small moan escaping her throat.
“This is really good,” she admits.
“I know.”
“Anyone ever tell you how charmingly modest you are?”
“Honesty isn’t modesty.” I lean against the counter across from her. “I’ve always been good with my hands, Olivia. I’m sure you remember.”
She sets down her fork hard on the plate. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Would it work?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not trying.”
She glares at me, but her eyes are telling me a different story. We’re both remembering things: desks slicked with sweat, a plastic specimen cup, moans echoing through an empty office.
“Eat,” I urge her again. “You need your strength.”
She does, and I watch every bite. Under my eyes, her body relaxes as real food settles in her stomach and color returns to her cheeks.
She studies my face, searching for something. Whatever it is, she must find it, because she nods and picks up her fork again. “You know something?” she says after a few bites. “Seeing the babywith my eyes today didn’t do much for me. It just looked like a bad doodle.”
I laugh. “It did look pretty abstract.”
“But the heartbeat...” Her face softens. “That knocked me out. It was the most amazing sound I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah.” I move to the sink and start washing the pan. “It was.”
“I wish I could have recorded it or something. To keep it.”
“They’ll do it, if I ask them to.”
“You can get anything you want, can’t you?” she teases.
I turn off the water and face her. “No one gets everything they want. Not even me.”
Her eyes search mine. “What do you want that you can’t have?”
You. Trust. A clean slate. A future where my past doesn’t poison everything good.
“Lots of things,” I say instead.
She opens her mouth to press, but a scream tears through the house—distant but unmistakable. High-pitched. Female. Furious.
Mikayla.
Olivia jumps off the barstool, knife clattering to the floor. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I move toward the door. “Stay here.”
“Stefan—”
But I’m already gone, heading toward the foyer where I can hear commotion. The basement door slams shut just as I round the corner. The head of my security team, Arkady, stands there, nose bleeding, one hand pressed to his face.
