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Chapter twenty-eight

Levana

I tear through the drawer again, slamming it shut so hard the utensils rattle inside. They’re not there. Not in my coat pocket. They’ve disappeared into the fucking abyss.

“Patrick,” I snap. “Have you seen my cigarettes?”

He glances up from the stove, where he’s fussing over eggs. “No, sorry baby.”

It’s been too fucking long without a cigarette. I tried to stop to stave off the nausea, but the cravings are back with a vengeance, and they’re starting to crawl under my skin like ants.

The headaches are back too, merging everything into this low grade sickness that won’t go away. It’s left me feeling like I’ve been at sea for days, bruised and battered by every single wave and sway.

I press my fingers to my temples and blow out a long breath.

We’re snowed in. Still. I haven’t seen another human being in fucking weeks, except for Patrick. I can’t get to a doctor, I can’t even get to a pharmacy. Patrick’s been looking after me as best he can, but I feel like I’m falling apart and I can’t do anything about it.

I try to keep my voice steady. “Seriously though. Did you move them?”

He turns and leans against the counter with that too-calm expression that’s really starting to piss me off. “Maybe you ran out.”

“I didn’t,” I snap. “I had a pack in my coat pocket.”

“Then maybe you dropped them.”

“Patrick, where the fuck would I have dropped them?”

He raises a brow. “What do you want me to say, Levana?”

I don’t answer. My throat’s tight all of a sudden, and my eyes are stinging, and I don’t even know why.

Patrick must sense the shift, because he steps toward me, wrapping his arms around me.

Sharp pain punches through my nerves, and I instinctively jerk back.

“What the fuck?!” I snap, clutching my chest.

He freezes, lifting his hands. “What? What is it?”

I press both palms to my breasts, swearing under my breath. “Fuck me. This is getting worse.”

He stares at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head.

“They’re sore, okay?” I bark. “Jesus, they’re so sore I can barely touch them. Even brushing against me hurts.”

Patrick freezes, eyes wide like he’s not sure if I’m about to cry or scream, or both.

“Baby,” he says gently. “Just go and sit down. I’ll bring you breakfast.”

I nod and drag myself over to the table. A few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me—eggs and toast, just how I like them, all neatly stacked with the tiniest bit of butter melting over the edges.

“Thanks,” I mutter, managing the smallest smile.

I pick up the fork, but the second the smell hits me, my stomach turns. A wave of nausea barrels up out of nowhere. I gag and drop the fork with a loud clatter, slapping a hand over my mouth.

Patrick’s voice jumps, laced with panic. “What? Did I make them wrong?

My eyes squeeze shut, and I try to breathe through it.

“Are they off? Did I fuck them up?”

I shake my head.

“Well, what’s wrong then?”

I snap before I can stop myself. “Can you just give me a fucking minute? Christ.”

Silence stretches between us, and I press both hands to the table, breathing hard through my nose, trying to stop the room from spinning.

“This is getting ridiculous now,” Patrick mutters.

My eyes flick up. “What?”

“You’re sick all the damn time, Levana.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a step away. “You can’t keep going on like this.”

I push out a slow breath. “I know.”

“Right. Let’s figure this out together, okay?” He sits down across from me, elbows on the table, brow furrowed like he’s gearing up for battle. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“No,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.

He nods slowly. “Okay. What about pain here?” He taps lightly beneath his ribcage, right side. “Gallbladder?”

I shake my head.

“Here?” He motions to the left. “Pancreas?”

Another shake.

“Any ringing in your ears?”

“No.”

He pauses. “What meds do you take at home usually? Just day to day stuff.”

I frown. “Just the pill.”

Patrick doesn’t say a word, just hums thoughtfully like he’s weighing up the next question.

The pill. The pill. The pill…

My hand drifts down. Resting low, just beneath my belly button. It’s firm beneath the flesh. Not bloated-firm. Not cramp-firm. Just… different. Solid.

A nervous laugh slips out of me. “No.”

I shift in my seat, grabbing a breast without even thinking, and wince.

The nausea. The exhaustion. The sensitivity. The headaches. The way I just gagged over fucking eggs.

Every single thing. Every symptom. Every little moment that I brushed off as stress, or exhaustion, or other bullshit reasons.

Shit .

A sharp, loud laugh spills out of me.

Patrick freezes. “What’s going on?”

I can’t answer him.

When the fuck did this happen?

How didn’t I see it?

I’ve been on the pill.

We’ve used protection.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Oh god,” I breathe. “I’m gonna be sick.”

I shoot up from the table, chair scraping back hard across the floor. “I need a doctor. Right now. I need my phone.”

Panic surges through my veins, searing every nerve, bright and white-hot.

“I need to call a doctor,” I say again, sharper this time. “Patrick, where’s my phone?”

“Levana—”

“No.” I turn on him, eyes wide, heart hammering. “I don’t understand. I don’t fucking understand—”

“Levana. Look at me,” he says. “Talk to me.”

“I… I don’t know,” I choke out through ragged drags of oxygen. “I don’t… I don’t get it. It’s just—

My hand finds my stomach again, fingers splaying across the slight curve beneath my skin like maybe it’ll vanish if I press hard enough.

“It’s wrong,” I whisper. “I don’t understand how. Or when. I just… I don’t—”

I thought I’d maybe gained a little weight from how much Patrick’s been feeding me, or at least trying to.

That thought had made sense.

But this doesn’t. Nothing makes sense. None of it.

“Patrick. We’ve been so careful.”

He frowns. “Careful with what?”

“With protection,” I say quickly. “I’ve been on the pill, we’ve used condoms—”

He goes still. Just for a second. “Levana… what do you mean?”

I blink at him, suddenly unsure. “I think I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t speak. Just stares at me like I pulled the floor out from under him.

“You…” he starts, then swallows. “You think you’re—?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, wrapping my arms tight around myself. “We were careful. Especially since the convention scare. I just…”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay. It’s alright. We’re gonna figure this out.”

He stands there for a minute, just staring at a spot on the wall before he speaks again. “Do you want to do a test?”

My eyes snap to his. “How? I don’t have one.”

“I do,” he says quickly. “I have some from when Mara was...” he trails off, shaking his head. “I kept a couple stashed away, just in case. I guess I never thought to get rid of them.”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to see the lines. I don’t want confirmation. I don’t want this to be real.

But I have to know. I need something solid to hold onto. Something I can name. Something I can hate.

“Okay,” I choke out. “Yeah… okay.”

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

My eyes are burning, my chest’s tight, and no matter how hard I blink, those two dark pink lines are still there—clear as day, screaming at me from the little white plastic cassette.

No.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth, swallowing down the sob that’s threatening to rip out of me. My whole body’s shaking, burning and freezing, skin stretching tight over my rattling bones.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

“Levana?” Patrick’s voice drifts through the door. “Baby? Can you let me in?”

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

“Levana, please don’t lock me out. Please, let me in.”

I can hear the tremble in his voice and how he’s pacing in front of the door, probably raking his hand through his hair, tearing himself up.

“I can’t,” I croak, barely able to get the words out.

I stare at the test again and my guts contract. The lines haven’t changed. They’re still there, bold and undeniable.

I’m pregnant.

Pregnant.

“Oh, god,” I whisper, pressing my hand to my sternum in an attempt to slow the erratic thud of my heart.

The bathroom door handle rattles.

“Baby, please… You don’t have to talk. Just let me in, okay? Please. I’m begging you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe.

“Levana?” His voice drops lower. “I love you, okay? I love you, and I’m here. You don’t have to do this alone. Let me in.”

Violet’s face flashes behind my eyes—pale and still. Cold and grey. Silent and lifeless.

Not again.

No.

No, no, no…

I won’t go through that again.

My head spins, and I grip the sink to steady myself, fingers digging hard into the cold porcelain, knuckles burning white.

How far along am I? How long have I been walking around like this? Like everything’s normal, when my body’s been…

I force myself to look up, to face my reflection in the mirror, so I can see what I’ve felt.

It’s not huge, not obvious—but it’s there.

A curve below my navel, swollen and tight.

Weight gain, my ass.

When did this happen? How did I not notice?

I can’t do this.

I won’t do this.

The door handle rattles again. “Please. Please, baby. Just let me in.”

The second I unlock it, he’s through the door, eyes flicking to the test on the counter, then to me. “Oh, my beautiful girl…”

I’m in his arms in less than a heartbeat, collapsing against his chest, ugly sobs tearing through me.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He rocks us gently, chin resting on top of my head, one hand rubbing slow circles over my back.

My body starts to sag, drained from the rush of adrenaline and panic. I’m too tired to keep crying. Too tired to do a damn thing except lean into him, and let his heartbeat lull me into a state of calm whilst I try to slow my thoughts.

“We’re having a baby,” Patrick says softly, voice catching on the words. “We’ve made a damn baby.”

What the fuck was that?

I step back so fast I almost stumble. “We aren’t having a baby, Patrick.”

“What?” His brow furrows. “But… it’s positive though, right?”

“It’s positive,” I say flatly. “But I’m not keeping it.”

He stops still and just stares, like I’ve just spoken to him in another language. I don’t think he’s breathing.

Then it seems to all hit him at once, his eyes widen and he sucks in a huge breath.

“What?” His voice spikes. “Levana, no. No, you can’t—“

No, I’m not doing this.

I push past him.

My steps are too loud as I run down the stairs. Heading for what? I don’t know.

“Levana!” Patrick’s voice slices through the house. “Levana, please!”

His hand catches my wrist and I whirl around, chest heaving.

“Please,” his voice is shaking. “Please don’t kill it. Please don’t take it away from me.”

“Excuse me?” I wrench my arm out of his grip, staggering back.

“It’s a part of us,” he says, eyes glassy. “Please don’t take it away from me. From us.”

“Don’t you fucking dare say that,” I snap.

“But it’s ours. It’s our baby.” The words shudder out of him.

I shake my head, fast and frantic, vision blurring at the edges. “We aren’t having a baby, Patrick. I can’t. I won’t. I’m not going through losing another child.”

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. “I won’t go through it again either.”

I freeze.

Fuck.

His son.

His little boy.

Alexander.

“Patrick,” My voice falters, every word clotted thick in my vocal cords. “I need my phone. Just… give me my phone.”

He’s crying now. Not loudly, the silent kind where fat, salty tears are spilling down his cheeks, and he keeps blinking them back like it’ll stop them. “Don’t do this.”

“My phone. Now”

“I can’t,” his voice splinters. “I can’t just stand here and let you—” He cuts off, dragging a shaky hand down his face like he’s trying to hold himself together. “Please. Just think about this.”

I breathe hard through my nose. In and out. Trying to calm myself down, to stop my nerves from firing off one after the other.

“Can you at least sit with me? Just for a minute. We don’t have to solve anything, just… let’s calm down together. Okay? Please, baby?”