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We’ve not been intimate for the longest time, and as I look at them, I feel the first stirring of anything approaching desire. Sex has been the last thing I’ve been in the mood for, and it can’t have been easy for them abstaining for this long. I know how lucky I am to have found three supportive men who have all put their own needs to one side this past month to care for me.
Kirill gets to his feet. “We’ll meet you in the den later.”
I agree. “Let me get ready and I’ll see you then.”
They leave me with hugs and forehead kisses, and I force my legs out of bed. That it’s been a month already still blows my mind. I had no idea so much time had passed.
In the shower, with hot water cascading over me, that other niggle I had at the back of my mind makes itself known.
A month.
An entire goddamn month.
Slowly, my hand trails down to my belly. I force myself to think. When did I have my last period? I’m sure I haven’t had one since my mom died. But I’ve had the shock of what happened and everything else to deal with. Plus, I know I’ve lost weight from not eating properly, and I didn’t really have any to lose in the first place.
The place on the inside of my arm where my implant had once resided has long since healed, but I find myself touching the scar there. Shit. It’s perfectly possible, isn’t it? That I’m pregnant? I have no idea how many times Dom and Kirill and Tino came inside me, but it was plenty enough to get me knocked up. We’d been reckless, but perhaps, on a subconscious level, it was because we’d all wanted this, too. We’d wanted something we could call our own.
My family has been torn away from me, leaving me adrift, but maybe now I could be making a new one.
My heart flutters with nervous excitement, and a warmth springs within me. Could I be pregnant? I’ve always told myself I wasn’t ready to be a mom, but now I’ve lost my own mother, I discover my feelings have shifted. The idea of life inside me gives me an antidote to the pain of losing so many people. Maybe everyone will say we’re too young, but if age can be measured by experiences, we’re plenty old enough. We’d love this child with everything we have. We’d all had fucked up relationships with our parents, in one way or another, and I know we’ll be determined to make sure we raise this baby right if I am carrying it.
Despite my mental reassurances, nervousness grips me.
Pregnancy isn’t straightforward for me. I have my epilepsy to consider. I still need to take medication daily to control my seizures, and I have no idea if that medication can affect a developing baby. And what will happen after the baby is born? Will my condition affect how well I can be a parent?
My stomach twists and flips with all these considerations. I might be happy about the idea of becoming a parent, but this will be a high-risk pregnancy and I’m going to need a lot of medical care.
I’m also worried about what the guys will say to the news. Will they be happy? What if they say they’re not ready to be fathers?
I shake the thought from my head. I don’t think that’s going to happen. Besides, I don’t even know for sure that my suspicions are real. I haven’t done a test or anything. I urgently need to get one.
I’ll keep this news to myself until I know for sure.
Chapter 41
Tino
My head throbs.
Fuck me, it’s bad enough struggling with historic injuries, but the pain in my head from the fracture only adds to it. Still, it’s healing slowly, and I know full well that the time has come to cut the meds.
And yet, I haven’t. I’m not taking them at dangerous levels like before, but I should have stopped by now.
I turn to the wall and close my eyes. I’ve been spending hours in my room, in bed. I know I should get myself moving. I know I should be reducing the painkillers now. I know Mackenzie needs me.
The more I know these things, the worse I feel, and the more tempting the bottle of pills becomes.
It’s not purely for pain relief. I love the softened edges they bring. The way they make this too emotionally painful world all nice and fuzzy. The way they make me sleep, and sleep, and sleep.
I think I’ve lost weight. I know I’ve lost muscle mass. You can’t sit around in your room all day, sleeping and watching crap on a tablet, and maintain the physique of an athlete. I’d be worried about getting fat, except I’m not eating much either.
I kind of wish I could slip away. Some days, I want to disappear into nothing. I’m so fucking weak. Kirill lost his father, after the man went certifiably insane and kidnapped Mackenzie. Mackenzie lost her mother. Dom lost his own mother not that long ago, and now his father is grieving and a shell of himself.
Out of all of us, I’m the one who should be strong. I ought to be stepping up and carrying the others through these horrific times, but instead I’m the weakest of us all.
The self-loathing fuels the pills, which fuel the self-loathing, and around and around I go. Stuck on this hellish merry-go-round.
At night, I add a little bourbon into the mix, and the warm and fuzzies hit even harder. I need to stop. I’m on a dangerous path, and the last time I followed it, I ended up in the hospital. I could have died. I don’t understand why the fear of that happening again isn’t enough, but it simply isn’t. Some days, I feel as if there’s nothing worth stopping for other than Duchess, and she’s broken, too, now. She’s closed herself off from us, and I’ve barely seen her.
