Page 140 of One Secret

I have upon my person two socks, two shoes, and a brand new coat (I have no idea where it's come from) before I can jolt back out of my trance.

I slip the sonogram inside its envelope.

'I wouldn't put that away,' Sister Valentina encourages. 'I'm sure he'd like to see it.'

'He?'

She frowns.

'Your boyfriend?'

Boyfriend... For a minute, I literally don't know who she's talking about. There's only one man who would care enough to come pick me up and "boyfriend" is just a too wildly quaint term for him.

'I er... I don't have a boyfriend,' I say. Technically, I'm not wrong.

'Er... does he know that?' Sister Valentina laughs as she takes back the signed forms for my release. 'He's been waiting forever.'

'He's been here all day?' I ask, shocked.

She looks at me funny.

'He's been here all week,' she says. 'I thought you knew that. Sister Mary-Joseph had to let him use the staff showers because he wouldn't—'

I'm out the door like a shot.

Still surprisingly shaky on my pins, I hurry as best I can down an impressive corridor of beautiful architecture and finely framed artwork. None of which I give two shits about. I'm more interested in the signs; the little, modern, modestly printed signs that will lead me to the waiting room.

The speed of my feet isn't quite up to my head's standards and, by the time I hit the reception desk in the waiting room, I'm light-headed and have to take a couple of long, deep breaths to steady myself.

I scan the room and, as any good soldier does, hone in on my target with speed and accuracy.

Cyrus is seated in the far corner sandwiched between a stack of unread magazines and a potted plant. His six-foot-plus frame looks ridiculous, squeezed into a tiny plastic chair, and a bundled-up fleece has slumped down behind his shoulders. Like he might have been using it as a pillow against the wall.

Now, Cyrus sits slouched forward, his elbows on his knees, forearms locked upright and his head on his hands. His eyes are downcast and his back solidified into a graceful, greaving slope.

Unkept, unshaven, and absolutely rigid, Cyrus looks like he's been in that little seat since the dawn of time.

'Cyrus?'

His head comes up so fast that I'm surprised he doesn't give himself whiplash. Another second and Cyrus is across the room, hands on my shoulders, my neck, my face.

'Are you all right?' He croaks the words, his voice rusty and unused. 'What about the baby? Is she all right? Is she healthy?'

One warm palm drifts down to my waist, the other to my hair. He changes his mind and brings them both around my rib cage like he's ready to catch me if I fall.

'I'm not family,' he growls darkly as he strokes. 'They wouldn't tell me anything.'

His touch is fluttering. Infinitely gentle. It's sweet but it's also diluted. I crave his real touch. I hunger for the hard, strong pressure of his arms. The embrace I know to be all Cyrus.

I dart forward, wrapping myself around him and pulling him in tight against me. It's like jabbing a hot poker into my shoulder joint but I ignore it. I breathe in Cyrus's scent and feel his body against mine. This is more important.

'I'm fine,' I tell him. 'We're fine.'

Cyrus seems to sag against me and then sway a little.

I spy the fleece-pillow, fallen onto the chair behind him. How much sleep had this man gotten in the last few days?

'I have a confession to make,' Cyrus murmurs into my neck.

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