Page 47 of Vicious Betrayal

I get ready to go to Cormac's later with my thoughts on an endless loop. I'm pregnant with Cormac's child. The FBI wants me to marry him so I can destroy his life. If I don't, they'll take my baby and put my family in prison.

But maybe it won't go the way they think it will. Maybe if I tell him, he'll end it. Maybe he'll be angry that I wasn't more careful with my birth control. Maybe he'll tell me to get rid of it, that he doesn't want a child, that this was never supposed to be serious. Maybe he'll push me away, and then I can go back to Reyes and tell her it's over, that there's no access to gain because Cormac doesn't want me anymore.

It would break me. It would shatter me into pieces I'm not sure I could put back together. The last thing in the world that I want is to lose him. But I'm going to, one way or another, and maybe if I've tried my best and he still won't cooperate…

Maybe that's a way out for us both.

I know I'm grasping at straws, but I finish dressing in a pair of jeans and a soft short-sleeved cashmere sweater, and call an Uber to head over to his place. When I knock, the door opens, and my heart feels like it's going to stop in my chest.

Cormac stands there, backlit by the warm light from inside. He's in jeans and a dark henley, barefoot, his hair slightly mussed. His eyes scan my face, and whatever he sees there makes his expression shift immediately into concern.

"Oksana." He reaches for me, his hand closing around my wrist as he pulls me gently inside. "What's wrong?"

I can't speak. My throat has closed up entirely.

He pulls me the rest of the way inside, shuts the door, and turns me to face him. His hands come up to cup my face, tilting it so I have to look at him. "Talk to me. What happened?"

"I—" The word catches. I try again. "I need to tell you something."

The look of concern on his face deepens. "Okay."

"Can we sit down?"

He hesitates, then nods, leading me into the living room. We sit on the couch, and he doesn't let go of my hand. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, a soothing gesture that makes me want to cry. "Whatever it is," he says quietly, "just tell me."

I look at our joined hands, at the scars on his knuckles, the tattoos on his forearms. I think about the first night I met him, how dangerous he looked. How dangerous he is. And how, despite everything, I've never felt safer than when I'm with him. I've never felt more wanted, more… loved. He's never said it, and I imagine he never will. That's not the kind of relationship this is. But I think, if I were ever going to feel what love is like, this is it. He doesn't have to say it, because he shows it to me all of the time. Even when he hurt my feelings because of how he talked about me at the party, I know it was to protect me. It was what we agreed on. He would never hurt me on purpose.

He would never endanger me if he could help it.

I take a deep breath. I have to just say it. Otherwise, I'll never manage to say anything at all.

"I'm pregnant," I whisper.

I swear I can hear the sound of the words falling between us. Cormac goes completely still. His hand tightens on mine, just for a second, and then loosens. I can feel him trying to make sense of what I just said. When I finally look up at his face, his expression is unreadable.

"You're sure?" His voice is carefully neutral.

I swallow the threatening nausea down. I have no idea how he's feeling, what his reaction is actually going to be. I can't read him right now. "I took two tests. Both positive."

He nods slowly and lets out a long breath. "Okay."

"Okay?" I repeat, my voice rising slightly. "That's all you have to say?"

"I'm thinking." He releases my hand, and stands up, and paces to the window. His shoulders are tense, his hands shoved into his pockets. "How long have you known?"

"I took the tests last night."

"And you waited until tonight to tell me so you could do it in person?"

I nod. It's the closest thing to the truth I can manage, and it's not exactly a lie. "It's not really the sort of thing I'd want to text. Or even tell you over a phone call." Somehow, I manage a wan smile.

He returns it, the smallest bit. "Have you figured out how you feel about it? Over the past twenty-four hours or so?"

"No." The word comes out as almost a sob. "No, I haven't. I don't know what to do. I don't know what you want me to do. I don't⁠—"

"What I want you to do?" He crosses the room back to where I am, his hands reaching out to grip my shoulders. Not hard, but firm enough that I can't look away. "Oksana, this isn't just my decision."

"But you—" I swallow hard. "You didn't sign up for this. We were careful. Mostly. I thought⁠—"