Page 58 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
He murmurs about taking a look before he gets started, doing a standard check-over.
All the while, Mikhail hovers in the background, keeping a close eye on the situation while giving the doctor room to work. His eyes are sharp and attentive, but he doesn’t say much.
He’s trying to school his expression, but he can’t hide that concern. Not completely, anyway.
The doctor takes my vitals and asks about my symptoms, and as tired as I am, I try to answer honestly. My cheeks warm when I mention what happened at the lounge, and he nods thoughtfully.
Then, he pulls out a small plastic cup and holds it out. “I’m going to need a sample.”
My brows immediately furrow, becoming more animated for the first time since being sick. “What for?”
“To run a quick test just to rule out a few possibilities.”
My stomach drops, and I already know why.
Mikhail lifts a brow. “What test?”
“A pregnancy test just to be sure before we proceed. Nausea, dizziness, and fatigue…they’re all signs worth checking,” he says calmly as if the insinuation isn’t a life-changing one.
My stomach lurches, and I feel ready to be sick again, but I manage to hold it down.
“It’s routine,” he insists calmly, offering the cup to me again.
I know it is, but that doesn’t make it any easier to address.
Reluctantly, and with a touch of fear, I slowly get up from the couch with Mikhail’s help, then I take over and close myself in the bathroom. All the while, my heart pounds.
When I come back out again, both Mikhail and the doctor are waiting outside the room. Having left the sample on the counter, I feel him put a gentle hand on my arm to guide me back over to the couch. I don’t even look at him, not while tunnel vision sets in.
The doctor disappears into the bathroom with the test in hand, while every inch of my skin feels more sensitive than ever, while adrenaline moves through my system. The minutes pass, feeling like an eternity is going by.
Mikhail stands behind the couch, keeping a supportive hand on my shoulder. Surely, he can feel just how clammy I am. How deathly nervous I feel.
After a moment, the bathroom door opens, and the doctor returns to the room with a calm and controlled expression. The touch of seriousness in his tone makes my heart clench.
“We’ve found the culprit…it’s positive.”
At once, the air leaves my lungs, and I feel as Mikhail’s hold on my shoulder just barely tightens.
The room spins again, and I have to hold the couch beneath me to steady myself.
“You’re certain?” Mikhail asks, voice betraying a touch of surprise, if not disbelief.
“Yes, I’m sure. The hormone levels align with pregnancy,” the doctor says without a shadow of a doubt.
Pregnant.
With Mikhail’s baby.
Immediately, I can’t breathe. I blink through my stupor, struggling to feel anything other than shock as it ripples through me.
That word circles my mind for a painstaking amount of time, hitting me so hard that I could vomit again if it wasn’t for me emptying my stomach earlier.
Ignoring both Mikhail and the doctor, everything rushes through me at once. The night at the club, then the warehouse. When we came back to the penthouse after the fact. Every instance. Every look and touch made me crumble. I thought I could give in while keeping enough space between myself and his world.
But now that feels even farther from the truth.
I should’ve known better, but I was careless.
