Page 6 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

Rob looks annoyed by that, but I’m grateful. On the other hand, I’m slightly weirded out by how Donald is using a nickname that Rob has hated with a burning passion for as long as I can remember, and yet Rob is just taking it in stride.

“For now, it’s enough to know that she’s here and she’s safe,” Donald continues with satisfaction. Then he turns to me with a curious glance. “He… he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

This time, I refuse to be vague about my answer. “He didn’t hurt me,” I say fiercely. “He was… heisa difficult man to be alone with. But he never once hurt me.”

Not physically, at least.

Rob frowns doubtfully. “But you do look kind of pale.”

Nausea has been creeping its way up my throat over the last few minutes. The flowers and cologne that were pleasant when I first entered the room are repulsive now.

Sheer willpower is all that has kept the contents of my stomach down. But I can feel my control slipping.

“I’m fine,” I snap, even as my belly growls. “But is there a bathroom I can—oh, God…”

I dry heave and clap a hand over my mouth as Rob steers me towards the bathroom. But it’s too far. I’m three steps into my sprint when I realize I’m not going to make it.

So I crumble to my knees at the foot of the grand piano and empty everything I have on the floor. It’s painful and violent as it comes up.

And when there’s nothing left to give, I feel suddenly exhausted. I could fall asleep right here.

Someone hands me a tissue as Rob starts barking orders. “We need a doctor,” he says. “Immediately. Donnie, call—”

“No,” I say firmly. “I said I’m fine.”

“Liv, you’re clearly sick. You’re white as a ghost and you just threw up all over Donald’s carpet.”

“I’m sorry about that, Donald,” I say sincerely. “Or would you prefer I go back to calling you Mr. Hargrove now that I’ve ruined your carpet?”

He smiles. “My feelings would be hurt if you did.”

“Liv!” Rob interrupts angrily. “Stop trying to downplay this.”

“I’m not downplaying anything!”

I close my eyes. My head is pounding, my throat is burning, and I just want him to shut up, to leave me alone in some peace and quiet so I can sort through the wreckage of my life.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Shut up.

“Yes, you are,” he presses. “You’re sick. You’re—”

That does it. “For God’s sake, I’m not sick—I’m pregnant!”

Rob’s jaw drops. I guess that’ll shut him up.

2

OLIVIA

As I look at Rob’s horrified face, there’s only one thing running through my mind:God-fucking-shit-dammit.

Why did you go and blurt that out, you dumbass?

“Pregnant?”

---