Page 25

Chapter twenty-five

Patrick

“Patrick.”

“Mhm?”

“Patrick.”

My eyes crack open and I roll onto my side. “What’s up, baby?”

But it’s not Levana.

I try to blink the sleep out of my eyes.

Mara’s standing in the doorway—head peaking around the frame, eyes locked onto me.

My heart slams against my ribs. I glance down. Levana’s asleep, curled into me, breathing slow and steady.

Shit.

I look back at Mara, eyebrows raised, mouth already half open in a silent ‘ what the hell are you doing?’

She doesn’t flinch, just lifts her chin slightly. “Will you come with me, please?”

I ease out of bed, careful not to wake Levana, my chest already tightening with irritation.

I pull the door shut behind me as quietly as I can, and follow her down the stairs, my steps fast and sharp.

“Mara,” I hiss, catching up to her. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She doesn’t even turn around.

“This is my damn house,” she says, completely calm.

“I know that,” I grit out.

She stops in the kitchen doorway, glancing at me like I’m the idiot.

“Good,” she says. “I want tea.”

I just stare at her.

“Make me tea. Now, Patrick.” She says, voice laced with sweetness, like we’re not playing with lit matches here.

I glance vaguely up toward the ceiling. “Levana might hear us.”

“Levana’s dead to the world. You’ll be fine.” She folds her arms, and leans against the counter. “I want some real time with you.”

A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the table, mugs in hand, steam curling between us.

“Mara, come on,” I mutter. “You know how risky this is.”

She shrugs, lifting the mug to her lips. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What does that mean?”

She sets the mug down with a soft clink. “I overheard her this morning.”

“Overheard what?”

She mimics Levana’s voice. “‘I want to know the woman who helped shape the man I love.’”

“Mara, you’ve got to stop.”

“I’m good, thanks,” she smiles and goes back to sipping her tea, before sliding something across the table. “So what’s this?”

I stare at it for a second. “It’s a test.”

“Yeah,” she says. “A pregnancy test. You got something you want to share with me?”

I exhale hard through my nose, rubbing my palm over my jaw. “I picked a few up today when Levana was getting her birth control. I was gonna tell you. I just wanted to be sure first. Didn’t want to say anything until I knew for real. Didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”

“What makes you think she is?”

My knee bounces under the table. My palms are damp. My heart’s doing this weird, jittery thing, like it’s tripping over itself just trying to keep up.

“At first I thought it was just the symptoms from the Clomid,” I shift in my seat, clutching my mug. “But it’s more than that. She’s gagging at food, quietly, like she doesn’t even realise it. She’s peeing more. Falling asleep all the time.”

My mind flicks back to this morning. The way I held her in the kitchen, arms wrapped around her waist. My hands found her stomach, like they always do.

But when she’d arched into me, I felt it. Right under her naval. I’d pressed gently to make sure. Not bloat, not tension, something… new.

I’m so fucking glad she couldn’t see my face in that moment. My mouth dried up and my eyes were practically popping out of my head. Every little thing hit me at once. Every single symptom down to the way she hissed when I sucked her nipples. I’d thought she was just being extra responsive to my touch. Apparently not.

I’m an idiot.

So much of my time has been spent so hellbent on getting her pregnant, I’d completely forgotten to take into account that she could’ve already been.

“It could be bloating,” Mara says flatly. “Or her food settling weird. Maybe she’s coming down with the flu.”

I shake my head, jaw tight. “No. No, it’s not that.”

“Patrick—”

“It felt like you. When you were pregnant. That heaviness. That firmness. You think I don’t remember that?”

Mara exhales slowly. “But you shouldn’t be able to feel that this early on. You said she tested negative at the convention?”

“Yeah, she did. So what does that mean?”

She just shrugs. “Google it.”

“I don’t even know what to search,” I snap, dragging a hand through my hair.

“Figure something out then. You’re the one convinced she’s carrying your second coming. Do your research.”

My body won’t move.

She groans and holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

I slide it across the table, and she snatches it like she’s done babysitting my confusion. Her thumbs fly over the screen while I just sit there, heartbeat drumming in my ears.

After a second, she turns the phone toward me and jabs her finger at the screen. “Look.”

I squint.

It’s some overly cheerful pregnancy blog. Pastel header, smiling cartoon uterus, and the words underneath hit like a brick to the chest.

False negatives.

Testing too early.

Hormone interference.

Clomid can delay a positive result.

Bile creeps up my throat.

“Mara, what the hell?”

“What?! What are you looking at me like that for?!”

“Did you not know this could happen?”

She throws her hands up. “Please explain how I was supposed to know that. The girls were planned , Patrick. I was under a doctor’s supervision. I was monitored and tested professionally. Blood work. Ultrasounds. I wasn’t just winging it.”

The air feels too thin, I’m lightheaded.

“If she’s pregnant,” she says, tone sharper now, “you need to take her off it. Straight away.”

“Why?” I ask, already bracing.

“Because it could cause serious birth defects, you idiot.”

My stomach drops clean through the floor.

Oh my god. What if I’ve already fucked it up? What if I’ve been giving her pills thinking I was helping and I’ve been hurting the baby this whole time? What if something’s already gone wrong and we just don’t know it yet?

Mara leans forward, voice steady. “You’re fine. Hey, let’s focus on the timeline instead. If we go back to when you first switched out her pill… she could be at the most, what? Twelve weeks?”

I stare at her. Stunned. “Twelve?”

“Twelve,” she says, nodding.

Twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks.

And she doesn’t even know.

Twelve weeks. That’s nearly the whole first trimester. That’s a whole heartbeat. Fingers. Toes. I’ve been sleeping beside her every night, loving her, touching her, and I had no idea.

Mara’s voice breaks through the noise in my head. “I assume you picked up prenatals?”

I nod. “Yeah. And Dramamine.”

Her face softens. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did,” I say quietly.

How could I ever forget? She puked none stop if she didn’t get that little tablet every morning. It was a lifesaver in pill form—took her from pale and shaky to laughing again, like she could focus on just growing her babies and not have to be dragged down by the rebellion her stomach was throwing.

So I thought it only right to try it on Levana. If she is pregnant, maybe they could be her lifesaver too. Something to help claw her back from the edge of all this sickness, give her some relief, some peace.

“How do i tell her Mara? What do I do if she is?”

“You’ll figure it out.” She leans over and cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly across my cheeks. “Go on. Go find out if you’re gonna be a daddy again.”

My stomach turns over, tight and sour, and there’s a sharp pinch just beneath my ribs. I try to swallow, but it does nothing to push down the rising wave of the invading nerves.

The instructions are practically idiot proof.

Clean the area. Prick the finger. Catch the blood. Wait for the result.

It’s just a test. Just a stupid little plastic kit. But I feel like my chest’s going to split open.

I swallow hard, wiping my palms against my sweats.

It’s fine. Just do it. Do it now.

When I reach the bedroom door, I stop. Just for a second. Grounding myself with a few deep breaths before I slip inside.

The room’s dark, but I can see her, tucked beneath the blankets. Her face is barely visible in the shadows, just her hair spilling across the pillow, one arm thrown lazily above her head.

My stomach clenches.

She’s beautiful.

I creep closer, easing back under the blanket beside her. Her body shifts slightly, curling instinctively toward mine, and my muscles lock tight, waiting for her to wake up.

Nothing.

She’s still asleep, her breathing slow and even.

Okay. Okay… just do it.

My hands are shaking as I reach for her soft, warm fingers.

I fumble with the alcohol wipe first, peeling it open. The wipe’s cold against her skin and it makes her stir.

“Shh,” I whisper, barely more than a breath. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

She stills again, and I grab the lancet with trembling fingers.

My stomach churns, bile rising sharp and bitter in my throat.

I force out a slow breath, then before I can overthink it, I push the lancet down against the pad of her thumb.

Her hand jerks away from mine, and she mumbles something in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake.

“Shh,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. It’s okay… you’re okay…”

I press her thumb gently, watching as a bright bead of blood wells up. I draw it into the pipette, squeeze it into the cassette, add in three drops of the buffer solution, then set it on the nightstand.

Ten minutes. That’s all.

“That’s it,” I whisper, bringing her hand up to my mouth and pressing a kiss to it. “All done, baby. You’re okay.”

I press the gauze to her thumb, holding it there gently, like it might break if I’m not careful.

But my hands are shaking.

I don’t know if I can wait.

My heart’s going fucking wild, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to break out. My skin’s too tight, my thoughts won’t hold still and I want to claw my way out of my own damn skin.

“Please,” I whisper, my mouth brushing the tips of her fingers. “Please… please be real…”

I squeeze my eyes shut, try to breathe through it—but it’s useless.

Nope. I can’t wait.

My head snaps toward the nightstand, pulse thundering in my ears as I force myself to look.

Two lines.

Two dark, perfect lines.

My heart slams into my ribs so hard I almost pass out.

She’s curled against me, breathing soft and even, her head tucked under my chin. Completely unaware. Peaceful.

And I’m losing my goddamn mind.

I clamp my jaw shut, force myself not to make a sound—not to shake her awake and fall apart right there in front of her.

Because I want to.

God , I want to.

I want to bury my face in her neck and sob. I want to kiss her awake, press my hand to her stomach and tell her how this changes everything.

She’s pregnant.

She’s carrying my baby.

My hand finds her stomach. That same firm spot, just below her navel.

Real. Solid. There.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”

I press my lips to her temple, breathing her in, my hand splayed protectively over her belly.

“You’re gonna be a mommy, Levana. You’re gonna be a mommy again.”

And then the tears come. Hot, fast and sharp. Sliding down my face before I can even try to stop them.

“I’m so proud of you,” I whisper, choking back a quiet sob. “You’re gonna be amazing. I know you are. I’m fixing you, and you’re fixing me. We’re gonna be a family, baby. A real family.”