Leaning forward on the sink, my boobs ached a little when they pushed against my bra, and it reminded me of that sharp jab of pain with Dylan earlier. My body was fucking betraying me, aching and… Holy fucking god. No!
In a blinding epiphany, a new possibility hit me.
My period was late this month. Only by a couple of weeks, and that was fairly normal for me during stressful times, but combine it with all the other shit happening... What were the chances of another reason that could explain it all? Could I actually be pregnant?
I mean, it would explain a lot of my symptoms, and Dylan wasn't always the best at pulling out. But we'd never had a scare before now. It had to have happened on the last night we were together, and so much of that was a blur of pleasure and sadness because I’d thought it was our last time.
Fuck. It couldn't be that. I refused to believe it because that would change every fucking thing. I couldn't run while pregnant, but I also couldn't bring a child into the world while constantly looking over my shoulder for Blake.
Would Dylan step up and be there? I mean, this was a hell of a commitment, and I had no idea if he'd try buy me off and pay for an abortion or insist I have the child. Either way, it was a hot fucking mess, and I was not in any way—mentally, financially, or physically—ready for it.
"Brooke!" he banged on the door as he called my name. "Are you okay in there?"
I jumped, panic only making the nausea worse, and when I dashed into the stall, I did exactly what I’d been hoping I wouldn’t: I threw up.
15
There was hardly anything in my stomach, so I pulled myself together quickly and raced back to the sink to wash my face and rinse my mouth out. Dylan banged again the moment the water came on.
“Brooke,” he warned.
Goddammit. The absolute last person in the world I wanted to see right now was the possible father of my maybe child. A huge part of me held out hope this was a virus and that my period would make itself known at the most inopportune moment—like the day I wore white pants.
I should go to the cabin and put white pants on right now, just to encourage it to appear and prove that my wild assumption was nothing more than just a bad theory brought on by lack of sleep and not enough food.
"I'm busting through this door in three fucking seconds, Brooklyn."
He would too.
Giving my pale face one final look in the mirror, I drew on years of discipline and schooled my features. Not even Dylan fucking Grant would weasel this secret out of me, not until I knew for sure, because there was still a very large possibility it wasn’t a baby, just a nasty virus that gave me tender boobs and a weak stomach.
Totally plausible.
The door burst open, making the lock dangle uselessly just as I was crossing to open it. Dylan’s eyes were like ice chips again as he ran that scrutinizing gaze across me. "Don't lock the door on me," he bit out.
He moved closer, and I fought the urge to wipe at my mouth and make sure there was no evidence of my sickness. "Yeah, sorry, must have accidentally hit that when I came in."
We both knew I was a liar, but he didn't call me out on it. "Today's trials are about to start. Hunting. Don't you think you should have some food?"
My stomach swirled, but he wasn't wrong. "Yeah, maybe some toast. I should be able to eat that fast enough."
He crossed his arms, staring me down. Clearly, he wasn't going to leave me alone until I did, so I abandoned my attempt to get my shit together in private and just stormed out the door. I expected all fucking eyes to be on us when we emerged because this was starting to become a bad habit—Dylan barging in on me in the bathroom—but the room was nearly empty and the few people still here were busy in the kitchen. A burst of relief hit me hard.
Nice to have something go my way today.
Dylan steered me toward the kitchen, where he requested some toast, and then, when it arrived, I ate it with just a tiny spread of butter and chased it