Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,37
yard—shouting and scuffling. I can’t see anything out my window, but I’m sure it’s Dante, trying to break in to see me. My father has increased our security detail. Dante doesn’t get through. I assume they don’t catch him either, since my father would surely rub it in my face.
Does Dante know I’m a prisoner in here? Does he know how badly I want to speak to him, even just for a minute?
Or does he think I’m caving in to my parents? That I’m going to give him up like they want?
I’m not giving up.
And yet . . .
If I’m honest with myself . . .
I’m not exactly trying to escape the house, either.
It’s not just because I’m ill and miserable. I feel like I’m balancing on the blade of a knife—on either side of me, a ten-thousand-foot drop into nothingness.
It’s an impossible choice between Dante and my family. Either way, I lose something precious to me. A part of myself.
I don’t know what to do. The longer I balance on the blade, the more it bites into my flesh, cutting me in half.
In the end, it becomes a completely different choice.
Serwa brings a bowl of ice cream up to my room. It’s seven o’clock at night, eight days after the disastrous dinner.
She sets the ice cream down in my lap. Mint chocolate chip—my favorite.
“You have to eat something, onuabaa,” she says.
I stir the ice cream around in the bowl. It’s already starting to melt. The green looks garish.
I take a bite, then set it down.
“It doesn’t taste right,” I say.
Serwa frowns. She’s always sensitive to signs of illness in other people, because she herself has always been unwell. She’s always the first one to bring me a hot pad when I have period cramps, or to lend me her nebulizer when I have a cold.
“You look pale,” she says to me.
“I’ve barely been out of the room in a week,” I say. “No sunshine in here.”
I know I’m being sulky. Serwa is supposed to leave tomorrow for London. I should ask her if she wants to cuddle up and watch a movie. Or if she needs any help packing her suitcase.
Before I can offer, Serwa stands up abruptly.
“I’ve got to run over to the pharmacy,” she says. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Send Wilson why don’t you?” I say.
“I’ll be back,” Serwa repeats.
I lay down on the bed again, too tired to care much about why she needs to run to the pharmacy right this minute. Actually, I’m a bit jealous that she can run errands whenever she likes while I’m stuck here under full-scale surveillance.
She returns an hour later, carrying a plastic bag from CVS.
“Simone,” she says hesitantly. “I think you should use this.”
She holds out a rectangular box.
It’s a pregnancy test. I stare at it blankly, then scowl at her.
“I don’t need that.”
Dante and I only had unprotected sex one time. It would be very unlikely that I got pregnant from one single time.
“Please,” Serwa says quietly. “For my peace of mind.”
I take the box from her hand. I don’t want to take the test. It’s humiliating, and I’m stressed enough as it is. But the sight of the test has put a kernel of doubt in my mind.
I’ve been tired, headachy, nauseous . . .
I try to think back to the last time I bled. The past few weeks seem like a blur. I can’t exactly remember if I had a period this month, or the one before. I’m not very regular.
I plan to pee on the stick just to be sure. To show Serwa there’s nothing to worry about—other than the thousand other things I’m already worried about.
I stalk over to my en suite bathroom, which isn’t nearly as tidy and sparkling clean as usual. I haven’t been letting the maid in to clean. Damp towels litter the floor and toothpaste flecks the mirror. My cosmetics are scattered across the countertop, and the waste bin is overflowing.
I sit down on the toilet to read the instructions. It’s simple enough—I take the cap off the indicator, pee on the end of the stick, and let it sit for ninety seconds.
I follow the steps, trying not to consider what would happen if I were pregnant. What a disaster that would be.
Even the smell of my own urine turns my stomach. I can barely stand to put the cap back on the test and set it on the counter next to the mess of Bobby pins and half-used lipstick.