Page 21 of Pas de Trois
She hesitates. “I know. I do. It’ll probably be negative anyway, right? What are the odds of a pregnancy surviving everything my body’s been through…right?”
I don’t have a fucking clue.
“Right,” I agree, knowing that she’s seeking assurance and that’s all I can give her right now—even if it ends up being false assurance.
Fuck.
“Come on.” I stand and hold out my hands for her, pulling her up when her palms land on mine.
We walk hand-in-hand out of the dance studio, though she pauses once at the door, turning to look back at Nikolai. He’s a still, dead body in the middle of the room where we found each other—a lifeless corpse in the center of the space where my blue-eyed girl and I danced together and fell in love. I’m not sure if that’s hauntingly poetic or morbidly gut-wrenching.
We follow the trail of blood Nikolai left as he bled out all the way from the dance studio back to the grand staircase. We ascend and Anya takes me to Nikolai’s bedroom. She goes straight for his bathroom and I wait beside his bed, listening as she pulls open drawers and flings open cabinets. A minute or two later, she comes out with a small pink box in her hands.
“Found one,” she says with a wry smile. “This one hasn’t expired.” She sucks in a harsh breath. “I don’t want to do this here, though…not in his room.”
I nod. “I know. Come on.”
I take her by the hand and lead her back to her room…my room…our room. It’s a part of Mikhailov Manor, but somehow, this room still feels like our space. She stops at the threshold.
“It…it looks the same as when I left it.” She glances toward the bed. “My dress.”
My gaze follows hers to the bright fuchsia gown she wore to the reception the night before she was sold to Vigo—the night of our performance.
“It never leaves the bed,” I tell her. “I always sleep next to it.”
She looks up at me with love and sadness in her eyes. I want to bend and kiss her, but then she sighs and turns away, looking down at the pink box hopelessly.
All the fucking boxes and secrets tonight.
“I just need to get this over with,” she tells me, melancholy ripe in her tone.
She turns and wanders away without another word, her eyes glued to the box in her hands. I step after her, thinking I should hug her, kiss her, tell her again that everything will be okay. But before I can reach her, she closes the bathroom door behind her, transfixed on whatever words are printed on the back of the box.
I pace for a minute or so.
The toilet flushes.
The faucet runs.
The door clicks open.
She comes out empty-handed, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “It…it says to wait two minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Two pink lines is positive. One line is negative.”
“Okay.”
“I took both tests in the box. There were two. I left them on the sink.”
“Okay.”
Her eyebrows slant toward her nose. “Okay? Is that all you have to say? Okay?”
I toss up my hands. “I don’t know what the fuck else to say, Anya. I’m at a loss here. Just a few hours ago, the only thing I had to worry about was saving your life. I never in a million fucking years would’ve thought pregnancy was even on the table.”
Her jaw sets and ticks as she shakes her head. She’s pissed and she’s directing all that angry energy at me. I step closer, putting my hands on her biceps to comfort her. She tenses against my touch and I don’t know what to do with that so I drop my arms and back away, lifting my palms as if I need to surrender.
