Page 104 of The Wrong Brother
And another.
And another.
Five total.
One is unopened, but four are messily torn into. The blood drains from my face. Carefully, almost mechanically, I look down at the small result windows. Positive, a plus sign, another plus sign, “pregnant” on the screen of the last.
The world tilts, and for a moment, my chest feels like concrete, unable to draw breath. Every sound inside the suite disappears. The city beyond the window disappears.
Even Andrei disappears.
There is only the white plastic stick in my hand and the impossible realization forming in my mind. I’m too old for this;aren’t I? Forty-five, too old to hope for anything remotely like a family.
Only steps away, Emma looks utterly devastated.
My gaze lifts slowly, and her eyes meet mine. I don’t know what to say. I’ve put together catalogues of seasonal couture, tortured men to the brink of death, but nothing prepared me for this.
Emma’s lower lip trembles. The shopping bag drops from my fingers, and suddenly every detail from the last few weeks rearranges itself in my head. I’ve been so focused on setting roots back in Colorado and trying to find a way to expose Andrei that I didn’t notice the signs. But why would I?
For the first time in my life, I’m completely at a loss about what to do.
Chapter 28
Emma
Rus standsacross from me holding one of the pregnancy tests, his expression unreadable in a way I’ve never seen before. Usually, I can tell when he’s angry, amused, irritated, or plotting something. Right now he looks almost stunned.
Which somehow scares me more.
The shopping bag sits forgotten on the floor. Neither of us moves. Neither of us seems capable of finding the right words.
Finally, he utters, “How late?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What?”
His eyes close, grip tightening around the test in his fist. “How late are you?”
That’s it?
Not,are you serious?
Not,is it mine?
Not,how the hell did this happen?
Something hot and defensive flares inside me. “I didn’t know you cared.”
The words come out sharper than intended, and I have no idea what I mean by them. Do Iwanthim to be angry, to rage through the suite we’ve been living in for almost a month?
Rus’s eyes narrow. Then he crosses the room.
I take an involuntary step back. He catches my wrist before I get far and pulls me against him. Not enough to hurt, but enough to stop my retreat. He’s done this,we’vedone this, so many times that it’s oddly comforting, which only makes more unbidden tears swim. God, I hate crying.
His free hand settles against my waist while his gaze drags slowly down my body. Not with the heat of every night we’ve spent together from the first, but with concern and calculation.
Those old instincts flood back into my system. Distrust. My eyes fly over his features, trying to analyze and figure out what he’s thinking and what his next move is.How can I get out of this?That age-old, logical question, the one that used to have me counting exits and making sure my back was always to a wall, not a person.
