Page 13 of Brutal Reign (Bratva Kings #3)

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

HOPE

“I have your test results,” the doctor begins, a polite smile fixed on her face. “You don’t have the flu. You’re pregnant, Ms. Ashford.”

I blink at her from where I sit on the paper-lined exam table, my coat still clutched in my lap. I shake my head, sure I misheard her.

I came to this walk-in medical clinic because of exhaustion no amount of sleep can cure, nausea that strikes at random, and headaches that feel like my skull is splitting. Not because of…

Pregnant?

“I-I think there’s a mistake,” I sputter. “That can’t be right.”

“It was confirmed by both the urine and the blood test,” she explains patiently. “I understand this might be unexpected news.”

My hands go clammy as they twist together in my lap. “But we were careful. Are you sure you didn’t mix up the samples?”

She gives me a sympathetic look as she explains why that’s not likely. Her voice fades as I rewind my memory to that perfect night six weeks ago. Lukas and I used condoms. Many of them. The proof was in my wastebasket the next day.

Except—

My breath stutters.

In the middle of the night, I woke up pressed against him. The memory is blurry because I was half asleep. He reached for me, or I reached for him—I’m not sure. But we came together, and our bodies moved in sync.

Oh my God.

I cover my face with both hands, trying to process what this means. How this changes everything. I feel like I’m floating outside of myself. Like none of this is real.

“I understand this is a lot to process,” the doctor says gently. “Would you like a glass of water or juice?”

I nod, grateful for a moment alone.

How could I have been so careless?

When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. The only thing he left behind was a sweet note on my kitchen table thanking me for an incredible night. No phone number. No email address. No way to contact him.

He’d followed my one-night rule, and while I should’ve been grateful, instead I felt empty and alone. He made me realize how desperately I longed for things to be different. For a normal life where I could actually be with someone like him.

The doctor returns with a small plastic cup and a pamphlet, which she sets down beside me. “You don’t have to decide today, but this outlines all your options. If the father is someone you’re in touch with, it might help to talk to him.”

I thank her and take the cup from her hands, trying to listen as she talks about booking a follow-up appointment, about vitamins and dietary changes, but her voice fades into the same white noise that’s been building in my head since I heard the word “pregnant”.

A short time later, I’m outside the clinic, walking aimlessly through the streets. The chill cuts through my coat, but I barely feel it. I barely register the city sounds around me: traffic, voices, life continuing after my world turned upside down.

There’s no room in my life for a baby. I barely survive month to month, counting every penny and wearing second-hand clothes. I have a go-bag under my bed, ready to run at a moment’s notice. How can I bring a child into my world?

The cruel irony is that I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I always pictured myself reading bedtime stories, kissing scraped knees, and being the kind of parent mine never got to be.

When I find myself in a small park, I sink onto a weathered bench, the pamphlet still clutched in my hand.

“All your options,” the doctor had said. As if someone like me has options.

I don’t know what prompts me to pull out my phone and type “Lukas Viklund” in the search bar. I haven’t Googled him once since the day he left. I wanted to, but resisted. I already think of him far too much. Going down that digital rabbit hole will only make moving on harder.

Still, I press enter on the search bar and hold my breath.

Only one result appears. The same author site I found earlier. There’s a dark banner with a brooding Viking sketch and text in Swedish that I can’t read. Instead, I click around until I find what looks like a contact form.

For one wild moment, I imagine reaching out and telling him that I’m pregnant with his baby. It’s crazy, but he has a right to know, doesn’t he? Before I can stop myself, I get lost in an impossible fantasy.

I picture us as a family, spending lazy Sunday mornings together, Lukas making coffee while our baby babbles in a highchair.

I imagine him reading bedtime stories about his Viking ancestors and building snowmen during visits to his homeland.

Giving our baby the kind of stable, loving childhood I lost after my mother was killed.

A life where our biggest worry is whether we’re saving enough for college, not whether we’ll live to see another birthday.

The daydream slips away as quickly as it came, swept aside by the cold reality that loving someone means putting them in danger.

Maybe when my inheritance comes through, life will be different. Two hundred million can buy safety and security, but it can’t buy love.

The thought breaks something inside me. I collapse into sobs, grief pouring out of me, my whole body trembling as I press both hands over my mouth, trying to silence the sound of my breaking heart.

My stomach roils. The pub smells like old beer and fryer grease, and I swear my feet have never felt this heavy. Everything feels harder tonight; even simple tasks like pulling pints and wiping tables, drain what little energy I have left.

I lean against the bar for a moment, chugging ice-cold water, before Chloe appears beside me.

“You okay?” she asks for the third time this shift, her face creased with worry as she studies me. “You still look rough, Lily. What did the doctor say about your flu?”

I manage a smile. “She said it’s taking longer than usual to clear. I need rest, which I haven’t been able to get much of.”

Chloe shakes her head, her forehead creasing. “You’ve been dragging your ass for weeks, babe. Maybe it’s time to call your family. I know you said they wouldn’t help you, but this is your health. There’s no way they’d turn you down.”

I squeeze her arm, guilt twisting in my chest. She means well, and I love her for it, but it only makes my lies feel heavier. Because there’s no family to call, no one whatsoever. “I’ll think about it,” I assure her.

The past two weeks since I found out I was pregnant have been a haze of worry, sleepless nights, and queasy mornings. I lie awake, indecision gnawing at me.

This pregnancy wasn’t part of any plan, but the fierce desire to keep it surprises me. In the dark of night, I picture a child with my dark hair and Lukas’s gray eyes, and against all reason, against all logic, I want to keep this baby.

The worst part is that time is running out. If I wait too long, the decision will be made for me.

I spend the shift pulling pints with my nose plugged, avoiding the kitchen where the smell of fried food makes my stomach revolt. When the night finally winds down and the pub empties, I’m so tired I’m nearly delirious.

Chloe locks up while I wipe down the last table, neither of us saying much. Outside, the air is damp and cool. It’s the kind of London night that’s become so familiar to me.

Two cabs idle by the curb, waiting for us.

A little over a month ago, a car service just started showing up. No explanation. Just like that, safe rides home after every shift. Now they appear like clockwork, no matter how late we close.

We both assume it’s Darren’s doing, though he’s never said as much.

It’s not the only stroke of luck I’ve had recently. I won free groceries for a year at the local shop. Apparently, they do a loyalty draw annually, but I don’t remember entering. Still, I’m not going to question good fortune when it comes my way.

Maybe the universe is trying to balance itself out after all the shit it’s dealt me.

Chloe gives me a quick wave as she climbs into her cab. “Promise me you’ll call your parents tonight.”

I can’t bring myself to lie to her again, so instead I deflect. “Get home safe,” I call out, then shut the door before she can argue.

The driver drops me off in front of my building. I thank him and climb the steps to my flat, each one feeling like a challenge. As I slip the key into the lock, all I can think about is sinking into a hot bath and then losing myself to sleep.

My Ring camera has been glitching lately. It’s one more thing I need to spend money on that I don’t have. It’ll have to wait until my next paycheck. For now, I rely on the locks alone.

When I flick on the light in my flat, everything looks normal, but my skin prickles with a sixth sense. Something feels off. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

I turn, ready to flee?—

“Hello, Hope.”

My breath catches. I spin back toward the voice, heart thudding in my chest. It couldn’t be… My mind must be playing tricks on me.

A figure steps out of the shadows, with the same calculating calm as always.

Simon Lau