Page 136 of Blood & Snow
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
For a moment, I imagine it's Xander, calling to argue or plead or threaten.
But when I check the screen, it's just a notification about tomorrow's weather forecast.
Snow expected overnight.
Temperatures dropping below freezing.
I slide the phone away and grip the balcony railing, metal cold enough to bite through my sweater sleeves.
The nausea that has been plaguing me for weeks churns again, stronger this time.
I press one hand against my stomach,feeling the slight bloating that could be stress or could be something much more significant.
Fear crawls up my throat, mixing with the tears that won't stop falling.
If I'm pregnant—if there's a child growing inside me who carries Xander's DNA—then walking away becomes infinitely more complicated.
And I fear that might be the case.
The nausea has only been getting stronger now, and I keep avoiding the simple thoughts that pass overhead like birds in a cloudless sky.
Because my sky is gunmetal grey and cloudy as a winter night.
A baby would tie us together permanently, creating bonds that can't be severed by good intentions or family pressure.
A baby would give him claim to something beyond my body or my skills.
A baby would make me his forever, whether I want to be or not.
"Aunt Nadya?" Anya's small voice comes from behind me.
"Are you sick?" she asks, eyes glancing down at my hand pressed to my belly.
I turn to find her standing in the doorway, still clutching the jewelry box against her chest.
Her green eyes are wide with concern, and I realize my tears are frightening her.
"I'm fine, little one," I lie, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand.
"You don't look fine."
Children see truth so clearly, unfiltered by adult rationalizations and social niceties.
To Anya, I'm simply a grown-up who is crying, which means something must be very wrong.
"Sometimes, adults cry when they're happy," I say, kneeling to her level.
"Are you happy?"
The question stops me cold.
Am I happy?
When did I last feel genuine joy instead of the hollow satisfaction of survival?
"I'm happy you love your gift," I deflect.
