Page 47

The speaker sounds like it’s recording in a cavern, catching the sound of random warbling echoes.

Pace braces a hand on the exam table beside my thigh, squinting. “There?”

This time Lex snaps. “Pace. Chill the fuck out, brother.”

Pace huffs but leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. He keeps his eyes on the speaker like he can see the heartbeat if he tries hard enough.

Woosh.

Lex’s hand freezes and then applies a little more pressure. Pace crowds closer, turning his ear toward my belly. Holding my breath, I freeze, afraid to move and lose it.

Woosh, woosh, woosh.

It’s faint. A small but distinct sound that seizes me like a fist around my stomach.

“There,” Lex says, gaze rising to Pace. “I told you to be patient.”

With his free hand, he presses buttons on the keyboard, recording something while Pace stares down at my stomach, expression hard and unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s angry, or excited, or what. Was he hoping there wouldn’t be a heartbeat? The last time he said anything about the pregnancy, it felt more like a threat than anything.

“This baby inside you? I bet I’m the one who put it there.”

“The heart rate is one-sixty-five,” Lex says, muttering as he goes over some numbers.

Pace’s deep voice rings out, “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s very good,” Lex says, giving his brother a decisive nod. “Strong. Perfect.”

Pace tilts his head as he assesses my belly. “Is it a boy or a girl? I read that you can tell by the heart rate.”

“Youread?” Lex scoffs, head shaking. “That’s an old wives’ tale. We won’t know that for another few weeks.”

Pace seems to take this in stride. “And paternity?” he asks, his dark eyes abruptly pinning mine.

There’s a tense pause before Lex answers solemnly. “You know the rules.”

I don’t know the rules. I should ask. I’m sick of being surprised, left in the dark, and expected to just know these things.

But I don’t.

I’m too paralyzed by the gentlewoosh-woosh-wooshfilling the room. I saw it on the monitor days ago, but it wasn’t anything then. Hardly a blob. I’m not even sure I saw the right thing. But this?

This is real, tangible proof that there’s a heart growing inside of me.

* * *

When I wasin West End, I missed the solarium, but I haven’t visited it once since coming back. I felt the same about West End, pining for its loudness and grit only to spend my month there holed away in the Duke’s loft.

That’s the only reason I go down there Saturday morning. There are rays of light in these dark, dreadful places, and I don’t want to lose them. The solarium, just like the gym back home, isn’t mine, but it still holds a part of me—an imprint of my soul—and I still hold parts of them, these little marks inside that weren’t made to hurt.

When I finally find the courage to step through the ornate glass door, my heart skips a beat.

There’sgreen.

Stunned, I shuffle hopefully toward the huge planters, cautiously fingering a young amaranth’s stem. It’s not flowering yet, spring still peeking through the chill of a stubborn winter, but its fledgling leaves feel strong. So is the hibiscus beside it, small but spry, and the burgeoning ferns beside the gate to the gardens. I’d planted these without any rhyme or reason, snagging seeds from the Agri-building on campus that neighbors the Visual Arts department—something other than roses and wisteria.

“They’ve watered them while you were away.” Spinning, I see King Ashby descending the steps, my pulse kicking up.

“You don’t mean…?” But, of course, he means the Princes. I turn back to the hibiscus, noting the dark soil in the urn. “Why?”