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I sigh dramatically, which in my opinion fits their over the top ridiculous behavior to a T. “Fine.”
Before I have time to mention the lack of a jacket, which is very much needed since March in Minneapolis is still freeze-my-ass-off cold, Mickey tosses one at me. It’s black, so long it reaches my knees, and unbelievably stylish and soft. If they weren’t such assholes, I’d allow them to redo my entire wardrobe since everything so far is spot on.
The drive to Dr. Patel’s office is silent, the kind of silence that screams. It claws at my insides, leaving raw scratches that no one can see. The city blurs past the car windows, a watercolor painting left out in the rain. We arrive, and I’m ushered through sliding doors into a sterile world of antiseptic and anxiety. A receptionist hands me a clipboard weighed down with paperwork, each sheet another shackle to be locked around my wrists.
“Fill these out, please,” she chirps, ignorant of the battle waging within me.
Seated between Mickey and Soren, I scratch answers onto the forms with a pen that feels like a dagger. Judging by the questions, the doctor already knows why we’re here. Good, that makes one of us. I mean, I know why they want to confirm Fet’s existence, but on the other hand, I don’t. It’s not like either of them have jumped up and down with joy, giving me the impression they want Fet.
So… “Why are we here?” I ask, my voice strangled as a thought hits me out of nowhere.
“Why?” Soren scoffs. “To find out if you’re lying or not.”
“And if I’m not?” My heart thunders in my chest, thumping harder for every second my question hangs unanswered in the air between us. “I’m not giving up Fet,” I hiss venomously, my free hand protectively cradling my stomach.
“Just answer the fucking questionnaire,” Mickey growls.
My handwriting shakes, betraying the turmoil I work so hard to contain. Every question is a prying eye, every blank space a demand for confession.
“Need help?” Soren leans in, his breath warm against my ear. His proximity sends a jolt through me—an unwelcome reminder of desires I can’t afford to acknowledge right now.
“I’ve got it,” I snap.
I finish the last question and let the clipboard clatter to the table. My heart hammers—a trapped bird against the cage of my ribs. I glance up to find Mickey watching me, his gaze intense, unyielding.
“Done,” I say, standing too quickly. The room tilts, and strong hands steady me—Mickey’s hands, calloused and unbreakable.
“Steady there,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Wouldn’t want you falling apart on us.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm to mask the fear of why we’re here squeezing my throat.
“Let’s get this over with,” Soren adds, standing and guiding me toward the nurse, who just called my name.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. We walk together—me, a woman on the edge of a precipice; them, the gravity threatening to pull me over. And as we move, I know that whatever happens next, my life will never be the same again.
“We need a urine sample from you,” the nurse says, smiling too widely for my liking. “Follow me.”
She tries to stop the guys from following, but when they make it clear there’s no way they’re leaving me alone, she gives up. Her lack of fight on my behalf is insulting and… fuck, why does it hurt? I kinda already figured they wouldn’t trust me to go anywhere without them, but I was banking on the medical personnel being professionals.
“You’re not watching me pee into the cup,” I hiss when Soren leans his shoulder against the door I’m trying to close.
His green eyes darken as they bore into my blue ones. “Don’t take too long.” That’s all he says before relenting, allowing me the illusion of privacy as I pee. Once I’m done, I put the lid back on and wash my hands. Then I leave the bathroom without looking at them. There’s no need, since I can hear and feel them behind me.
As I hand the cup of urine to the nurse, I have to temper down the urge to ‘accidentally’ spill it all over her lap, since she left me alone with the two jerks. “Dr. Patel will have the result for you in a few,” she chirps. Either she’s oblivious to the tension between me and the guys at my back, or she’s ignoring it.
This time, I don’t sit down. I lean against the wall, wrapping my arms around myself as I wait for us to be called into the examination room. I don’t know how long it takes, but it feels like hours pass by until my name is called and the display above the receptionist flashes a number to let us know what room to go to.
Mickey and Soren flank me as we make our way to the room. The first thing that hits me as we walk inside is the sterile scent that wraps around me like a shroud. My stomach churns, threatening to send the delicious egg and bacon sandwich back up. But luckily, that doesn’t happen.
“Good morning,” Dr. Patel greets us, gesturing toward the three chairs opposite hers, with a big oak desk between us.
Dr. Patel is a petite woman who looks to be in her forties. Her raven black hair is cut in a short, stylish bob, making the locks cradle her jaw. Her brown eyes are cold, oozing with professionalism rather than warmth. It’s so unlike the other times I’ve seen her that I’m momentarily taken aback by the hostility coming from her.
“I was informed this appointment was to confirm Abigail’s pregnancy,” she says, tapping away at her keyboard. “But there’s no pregnancy.” The last part is said without preamble, without emotions.
Dr. Patel puts on a pair of plastic gloves and holds up the test I assume was dipped into my pee. Jesus, I didn’t even notice it on the table. That’s kinda disgusting, even if it is resting on a paper towel.
The guys curse, and I can feel their angry glares digging into my skin like tiny daggers.
