Page 56 of Crimson Sin
But my stomach twists, not from fear of Viktor or the Bratva anymore, but from something deeper. My period is late. Not a day or two but over a week. I try to reason with myself and convince myself that stress can have this effect. My body has been through too much over the past few weeks. That must be it. But the longer I lie here, the less convincing it feels. I sit upright in bed with my pulse thundering in my ears. This cannot be happening.
The numbers dance in my head as I count again. Nine days. Nine days since I should have started bleeding, and my body has never been irregular. Not once in all my adult years. Even during finals week in college, when I switched jobs, and when my father died and grief consumed everything for months, mycycle remained steady as clockwork. The certainty of it terrifies me more than any of Viktor's threats ever could.
I slide from the bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. My hands shake as I unlock the screen. The numbers on the display blur as tears sting the back of my eyes. I need Charlotte. I need someone who knows me well enough to talk me down from this ledge or push me off it entirely.
Charlotte picks up on the second ring. “Naomi? The sun isn't even up yet.”
Her voice, groggy but concerned, nearly undoes me. I press the heel of my hand against my mouth to keep myself steady. “Char… I think I might be pregnant.”
There's a pause on the line, then her sharp intake of breath. “What? How? Nae, you're on the pill.”
“I know. I never missed one. Not once. But my period is late.” My voice cracks on the last word. “Over a week late.”
She curses under her breath, and I can picture her sitting up in bed, running her fingers through her sleep-mussed hair. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. Don't panic yet. Stress can mess with cycles.”
But even as she attempts to comfort me, I hear the doubt in her tone. Charlotte knows me. She knows my body keeps time better than any Swiss watch and knows that I've never been late. The reason swimming through my mind makes my stomach lurch violently.
“I need a test.” My whisper is frantic, as if speaking louder will summon Daniil to the door. “I can't get out of here to buy one. They'll never let me.”
The truth of my captivity hits me. I can't walk to the pharmacy. I can't drive to the store. I can't even ask Nadia to pick something up without raising questions I'm not ready to answer. Every move I make is monitored, and every request scrutinized. The golden cage Daniil has built around me has never felt more stifling.
Charlotte hesitates, and I can almost hear her mind working through the logistics. “I'll get one to you. Leave it to me.”
“How?” The question bursts out of me. “They monitor everyone who comes and goes. They check everything.”
“Trust me,” she replies, her voice gaining strength. “I'll figure it out.”
The line goes quiet, but her promise steadies me. I curl back under the covers, my body trembling, and my mind running circles around the impossible truth. Daniil's child. The thought lodges itself in me like a stone I cannot move.
Hours crawl by with agonizing slowness. I distract myself with work, opening my laptop and attempting to focus on correspondence about the exhibit. But every email blurs together, every sentence requiring multiple readings before the meaning penetrates the fog of panic surrounding my thoughts. I abandon the computer and pace the room instead.
What would Daniil do if he knew? The question circles my mind like a vulture. Would he be pleased? Possessive? Would he see this as the ultimate claim on me, the final chain to bind me to his world forever? Or would he see it as a liability, and another weakness Viktor can exploit?
The memory of his confession last night echoes through me. His raw admission that he was falling for me, that I wasn'ta replacement for anyone. But loving someone and wanting to raise a child with them in the middle of a war are entirely different things. Children make you vulnerable. They give your enemies the ultimate leverage.
A knock comes at my door, jolting me from my spiraling thoughts. When I open it, Lex stands there, his face unreadable. He doesn't waste words. He never does.
“You have a visitor,” he declares flatly.
Confusion cuts through the fog of my fear. A visitor?
He turns, expecting me to follow. My pulse quickens as he leads me down the hallway, his tall frame cutting a shadow through the light. Guards stand at subtle posts along the route, their eyes darting toward me but offering no warmth. To them, I'm just another asset to protect and another responsibility in their endless duties.
The living room is drenched in late-afternoon light, and in the center of it sits Charlotte. My best friend, dressed in a sharp navy coat with oversized sunglasses perched on her nose despite being indoors. She looks like the fashionable friend she is, but beneath the gloss, her eyes soften when they find me.
“Nae!” she exclaims, rising to embrace me.
I fold into her hug, clutching her like a lifeline. Her familiar perfume wraps around me like comfort. For a moment, I allow myself to pretend we're back in our shared apartment, gossiping about bad dates and career dreams over cheap wine.
We keep our conversation light, exchanging the kind of pleasantries that mean nothing but everything in front of watchful eyes. She asks about the exhibition, and I tell herabout the reviews, the photographs on the society pages, and the congratulatory calls from board members.
“I'm so proud of you,” Charlotte declares, her voice warm but her eyes sharp as they dart toward the guards stationed near the doorway. “You've worked so hard for this moment.”
“Thank you for being there last night,” I respond, following her lead. “Having you in the crowd meant everything.”
She launches into animated descriptions of the other attendees, the dresses she noticed, and the conversations she overheard. Her chatter fills the room with normalcy, covering the undercurrent of tension that runs between us. I nod and laugh at appropriate moments, but my attention keeps drifting to her oversized purse, wondering what she's managed to smuggle inside.
Nadia, a sweet maid with kind eyes and gentle hands, brings us tea on a silver service. The bone china cups rattle slightly against their saucers as she sets them down, betraying her nervousness around Charlotte. Outsiders always make the staff uncomfortable. They represent unpredictability in a house where everything is routine.
