Page 66 of Cruel Heir

“When you ask like that, how can I say no?” My voice quivers, andfor a moment, the look on Andre’s face makes me think he’s going to change his mind and not leave after all. I wish he wouldn’t, and I’m not insensible of the irony of that fact, or the way I want to call him back when he turns to go.

The hot water feels like bliss. My stomach is in knots, nausea roiling through me, and my knees give out before very long. I end up sitting on the tile floor and letting the shower simply pour down over me, turning the water pooling around me pink as it goes down the drain. I know I need to actively wash off whatever parts of that man are still clinging to me, but for the moment, I can’t bring myself to move.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough that the water is almost starting to cool by the time Andre comes back. I jump out of my daze at the sound of him walking in before I realize it’s him, fear lancing through me. He opens the shower door to my frightened expression, and shakes his head as he steps into the shower.

“I should have realized you’d need help.” He reaches for me, starting to help me to my feet, but my legs have turned to jelly. They can’t seem to hold my weight. For a moment, I anticipate Andre being angry with me—that he might lash out—but instead, he sinks down onto the tile floor with me, soap in hand, as he starts to lather up a cloth.

Tears fill my eyes as he starts to wash away the blood and gore clinging to my skin, reaching up to turn the taps hotter as the water begins to cool. His touch is gentle, wiping it all away until there’s nothing left but what I can feel weighing down my hair, and then Andre shifts behind me, tilting my head back as he starts to wash my hair. His fingers rub against my scalp, massaging away not only the filth but also the tension, and I lean back into his touch without thinking, closing my eyes. I can feel the horror of the night washing away, and I feel the heat of tears on my lashes, trickling down my cheek as Andre cares for me in a way that he never has before.

I both desperately want to go to bed, and don’t want the moment to end.

I’m so exhausted that by the time I feel him lifting me up, I’mbarely sensible of what’s happening. I feel him drying me off, carrying me back to the bed, the warm weight of his body next to mine.

“Sleep, Lucia,” he says softly. And then I’m dragged under into a dreamless sleep, and there’s nothing other than that.

20

LUCIA

When I wake, it’s to a heaving nausea like nothing I’ve ever felt.

I lurch out of bed without remembering that I’m in Andre’s room or stopping to see whether or not he’s in the bed next to me, stumbling towards the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m heaving into it, everything that could possibly come out of my stomach emptying out.

I sit there, panting, before it occurs to me that it might be something beyond simply shock or the injuries I sustained last night.

And then another wave hits.

When I’ve dry-heaved until even that is past, I weakly push myself up from the floor, staggering towards the sink. My face is pale, an awful bruise blooming along my jaw, but I’m not feverish. Aside from the nausea and lingering tiredness, I don’t feel ill. And as I stand there, woozy, a terrible suspicion settles over me.

I need to go to my room.

Andre isn’t in bed when I make my way back out into the room. I have a feeling he’s gone downstairs to take care of the remainder of the fallout from last night, and I’m grateful for the space. I don’t think I could answer any of his questions right now.

The tests are where I left them, under the sink. There was no need to hide them like the pills, after I asked Celeste to get them for me. If Andre had found them back then, he would have been pleased to see evidence that there was a chance he might have an heir. I look at the box, feeling my stomach twist with a fresh wave of anxiety—or maybe another flood of nausea.

There’s no way to know except to force myself to do it. I fish one out of the box, holding the piece of plastic as if it might bite me as I walk to the toilet for the second time this morning. My stomach feels as if it’s turned inside out; I’m not sure that I won’t vomit again before I have a chance to take the test.

When I’ve finished, I set it on the counter, and take a second, and a third. They all line up on the black marble countertop, neat and unassuming, as if the answer in the tiny windows doesn’t have the potential to change everything about my life. Before the results can pop up, my stomach wrenches again, and I end up back on my knees, vomiting.

It’s a fairly clear sign as to what the answer is before I ever make my way back to the sink, and see the double pink lines.

My vision swims and I grip the edge of the counter, trying to get control of the emotions churning inside of me. Everything is changing too quickly. Days ago, I would have been devastated, looking for any way out. Now, my first feeling is only fear—fear not so much for myself any longer, but for what kind of future this child might have.

And, on the heels of that thought, a flicker of hope.

I’d been certain that after last night’s attack, Andre would no longer consider the possibility of peace with my father—and my father has made it clear that option was never on the table for him to begin with. But if Andre can be convinced that continuing to press for peace is the only way to keep his child safe—

I press my hand against the flat of my stomach, my heart beating a quick rhythm in my chest. If my father takes me back, any child born of my and Andre’s union will be gone before it ever has a chance to exist. But even now, even after last night, I find it hard to believethat there is no way that my father might not be reached through his own grandchild. That this might not be a bridge between what Andre and my father each want.

Andre.Before, I would have tried to keep it a secret as long as I could, in hopes that I might be able to get away before Andre discovered the pregnancy. But now, I know I need to tell him. If there’s a way forward that doesn’t end in more bloodshed, it might be through this.

When I feel sure that I can leave the bathroom without throwing up again, I go and get dressed. There’s a knock on the door as I slip on a wrap dress and belt it at the waist, and Celeste steps in a moment later, with a tray of food that makes my throat tighten with nausea all over again.

“Are you alright?” We say it at the same moment, looking at each other, and a small smile curves the edges of Celeste’s lips. She looks as if she might break out into laughter or tears at any moment, and I cross the room to her, enveloping her in a hug before I have time to think otherwise.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, but I feel her lean into the embrace for a moment before she pulls away. “No one really hurt me. I was scared, that’s all. But you—” Celeste looks at the bruise on my jaw, frowning. “You look so pale. And that injury—”

“It’s just a bruise.” I sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to look at the food. I don’t think I can bring myself to tell Celeste that I’m pregnant, not when she went to such lengths to try to help me avoid it, and not when my feelings about it are so different from what they once were. “I’m tired. But after what happened—” I bite my lip. “I heard what they said to you. My father obviously knows you were helping me. Maybe it is better if Andre has you go to one of the other estates, just to keep you safe—”

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