Page 6 of Claimed By the Pakhan

“It’s up to the patient,” says the doctor, turning over his shoulder to include me in their conversation. “Fia—would you like this gentleman in the room?”

I’d rather drink bleach, but I feel inclined to say yes. He’s the only hope I have at getting my memories back.

“Sure,” I groan, sliding further back into bed, letting this cardboard mattress take my weight. “But I want him gone as soon as the ultrasound is over.”

“We’ll see about that,” chuckles Emil, stepping in. He waves goodbye to the nurse he appears to know very well and stands at my side.

My breath catches, feeling his shadow swallow me whole. He’s as tall as the high-rise buildings in this city. I look up into his eyes and feel insignificant—another sign this man has to be lying. I’d never marry a man this intimidatingly handsome who moves through the world like a wrecking ball.

My blood boils as I stare at his face, unsure if hatred or lust is to blame for how sweaty I’m feeling. There’s a fine line between both emotions, and I’m terrified of crossing over into the other side, especially since I don’t trust my body at the moment.

The cold gadget wakes me from my trance as the doctor moves the scanner over my lower abdomen again.

“There they are,” says the doctor, wheeling the screen closer for me to see. “Both hearts are beating just fine.”

Tears prick my eyes. Before I know it, I’m crying like a baby, sniffling and dabbing tears. Human life is inside of me. I’m growing two babies, and somehow, they both survived the incident. Miracles don’t exist, not unless you apply yourself and work your butt off to achieve something. All I did was sleep for two days.

“We’ll need to see you on a regular basis, Miss Ranger, to monitor the babies and ensure the rest of the pregnancy goes as planned.”

“Goes as planned,” repeats Emil. “What does that mean?”

The doctor slots the gadget back into the compartment, wheeling the portable computer away. “Both fetuses look healthy, but there’s always the chance things can change. For example, sometimes with acute trauma, babies can be born underdeveloped. This can be a risk with twins if one of them is developing slower than the other. We’ll monitor blood flow and see if there are any abnormal changes.”

“There won’t be,” I say, refusing to believe the health complications. My heart beats anxiously in my chest. My mind is numb, but I feel my body screaming at me, like it remembers the pregnancy… and the man standing beside me.

“Like I said before,” continues the doctor, “you and the babies have been through a lot. You’re twenty-three weeks pregnant, which means you should start experiencing kicks. If this doesn’t happen, make sure to contact your midwife immediately.”

“I don’t have a midwife.”

“Yes, you do,” interjects Emil. “I’ll take care of it.”

The doctor pulls a face, unconvinced. “Speak to your midwife. As someone who has a background in obstetrics, we would look at inducing an early labor and scheduling a C-section.”

My heart beats right out of my chest. I woke up only yesterday. Now I’m being told I should go under the knife and have my fucking stomach cut open?

I glance at Emil, since I have nobody else here to turn to. He clenches his jaw, watching the screen where the ultrasound images are being displayed, staring hard enough to burn holes through the computer.

I’ve seen fear enough times to know that Emil is shitting himself.

He wipes a hand around the back of his neck, taking a step back, sighing. “What’s the chances of Fia and the twins all surviving, coming out of this healthy?”

The doctor stares at Emil briefly before answering. “Fia and the twins have good chances if she takes it easy from now until the C-section. Stress increases the chance of complications.”

Emil’s jaw tightens. He slips his hands into his pockets, saying nothing.

A thick silence fills the room as the doctor squiggles some notes into my folder.

My head is scrambled, still coming to terms with the fact that I’m pregnant and apparently married, but one thing is for certain—these babies have to survive, and I’ll raise them as a single-parent if that’s what it takes to give them a safe, loving childhood.

I’m not so sure I want Emil around being a bad influence, showing my kids that violence is the answer.

But… How do I know for sure he’s violent?

I stare at him, waiting for realization to click in my mind, for the memories to resurface.

I get nothing.

Sighing, I look over the other shoulder, returning to the screen where the image of my babies is still displayed.