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And if I feel like this… does that mean Mara felt like this about me, once upon a time?
To my memory, she’s always been cold and uncaring without a single hint of motherly affection. If she felt like this when she was pregnant, then where did all that love go? Why didn’t my mother love me?
I make a promise to myself right there and then in the bathroom that my child will never ask herself that question. She will know how much I love her. Always.
With bubbles touching the rim, I turn off the taps and strip the rest of my clothes away. Sinking into the hot water is utterly blissful, and I relax until my chin rests atop the bubbles and I’m nearly completely submerged. The hot water seeps into each of my aching muscles, soothing the familiar pain left in my hips from Kristof, and the throb in my shoulder for having to sleep in an awkward position with one wrist bound.
I don’t mind that, either. I just wish Kristof would trust me with whatever is bothering him so I can soothe him and regain my freedom. Not that I’ll deny how sexy I find his possessive, protective streak.
His voice buzzes lightly on the other side of the door, providing a low comfort as he discusses things with the doctor. I bet he’s asking all sorts of ridiculous questions the doctor’s surely heard a million times before.
The curse of being a new parent, I suppose.
Closing my eyes, I float somewhat in the large bath and just enjoy the encapsulating warmth of the water and the soothing tones of Kristof’s voice.
In my mind, I picture what the three of us will look like. Already, the softness is creeping through Kristof and I’m certain that when our baby is born, Kristof will be the sweetest father. All his hidden affection that I see in glimpses will pour forth for her.
And with Nastja and Ivan as her aunt and uncle, my child is never going to feel alone.
My eyes snap open suddenly as Katja enters my thoughts, and my heart clenches faintly in my chest.
I miss her.
I miss her dearly, and with all the carnage that’s been happening, is she okay? How did she fare after Kristof snatched me away from the club?
He told me she was taken care of, but it’s been months. Will she have forgotten me? She’s the one person I want to tell about the baby, the one person I want to have by my side—who I was sure would be by my side forever.
Now, we’re worlds apart and I have no way of communicating with her, certainly not with my father alive.
Kristof will take care of that. Whatever lingering sympathy I had for my father died the moment I learned I was pregnant. This is my baby. Kristof’s baby. I know he won’t approve and will try to do God knows what to it when he finds out—if he hasn’t already.
When Kristof and August win this terrible war—and they will win—I’ll track down Katja. Maybe she can be at my side by the time the baby comes.
Tears sting briefly at the corners of my eyes just at the thought of her. She was my one comfort for so long that being without her for this many months is so alien.
One day, we will be reunited.
Suitably relaxed, I slide out of the bathtub and grab one of the Egyptian cotton towels hanging on the rack. It hugs my body with unimaginable softness and dries me so quickly that I spend a few long minutes just embracing the softness.
Then I begin to apply my usual lotions and moisturizers as Kristof’s voice dulls on the other side of the door, and silence falls.
The doctor must be leaving.
Half-dressed and mid-stroke of lotion, the ingredients on the back of the bottle catch my eye. Most of it is in Russian, so I understand very little, but what I do recognize gives me pause. Is it safe to put this stuff on my skin? Will it just absorb into my bloodstream and somehow affect the baby?
What about all the other perfumes and creams that I use?
Should I be avoiding those, or am I being too cautious?
The silence on the other side of the door kicks me into gear. The doctor must be on his way out, and I need answers before he leaves. Hurrying into a fresh shirt, I button it quickly and push open the door to the ensuite.
Kristof and the doctor are indeed gone. So is Andrev.
My fingers skim over the buttons, and I hurry barefoot out of the bedroom and into the hall. Andrev is there, but his back is turned to me as he talks to one of the other security guards. As I take a breath to ask him if the doctor is still here, I catch Kristof’s deep tones drifting faintly from the other end of the hall.
He must be saying goodbye!
I hurry down the hallway, past all the statues—marble and living alike—to the top of the stairs.
