Page 64 of Nine Months to Love

It’s the woman beside me, her dark hair spilled across my pillow, one hand curled against my chest.

I’ve never felt this before. This need to memorize every detail. Dark lashes on pale cheeks, a small, puckered scar in the hollow of her collarbone. A breath in. A breath out.

My father was weak. That’s what I told myself for years. He let my mother destroy him, let love make him blind and stupid. But lying here, watching Olivia sleep with my child growing inside her, I finally understand him.

I could make a thousand mistakes for this woman. And I’d make them gladly if it meant keeping her here, like this, forever.

But the world doesn’t stop for my newfound emotional revelations. Carefully, I slip from the bed, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. She murmurs something that sounds like my name and burrows deeper into the warmth I left behind.

Fuck.Even that small sound makes me want to crawl back in beside her.

I pull on yesterday’s pants and head topside. The morning air is crisp, salt-tinged. The sun hasn’t broken the horizon yet, but the sky is starting to lighten at the edges. I start the coffee maker in the galley kitchen and check my phone.

Seventeen missed calls. Wonderful.

I call Denis first. He answers on the second ring, sounding exhausted.

“Boss. We checked the Cypress Street lead. Neighbor saw a woman matching your mother’s description three days ago, but the trail’s cold.”

“Keep looking.”

“Stefan, if she’s really alive?—”

“She is.” I pour coffee, black. “The question is where she’s hiding and what she wants.”

“Maybe she wants her son back?”

“She had fifteen years to want that. Try again.”

Denis sighs. “We’ll keep searching.”

I hang up and call Taras next. He answers with a string of Russian profanity.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say.

“Your psycho head of security is driving me insane. She screams all night. She’s destroyed everything in that basement room. Yesterday, she somehow got hold of a fork and tried to stab herself with it.”

“Don’t let her die.”

“Easier said than done. She keeps saying she failed you, that she deserves death. It’s fucking creepy, Stefan.”

“She’s in love with me.”

“Yeah, no shit. The whole ‘screaming your name while trying to off herself’ gave that away.” Taras pauses. “Where are you?”

“The yacht.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. Do we really think this is a good time to play house, Stef? Our world is kinda on fire.”

“Nothing’s burning. We’re handling it.”

“Right. Your mother’s alive, the feds are sniffing around, Mikayla’s having a psychotic break in your basement, but sure. Everything’s handled. No smoke, no fire.”

“Taras—”