Page 40 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

We lay tangled together afterward, her head on my chest, my hand in her hair. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t ruin this.

But as I felt her breathing even out, felt her body relax into sleep, one thought circled in my head like a warning:

I’m in love with her.

Chapter 12 – Cassandra

Nausea slammed into me like a freight train.

One second, I was sleeping, Drew’s arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. The next, my stomach coiled violently, and I was shooting upright in bed, heart pounding, bile rising in my throat.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I was on my knees, emptying what little remained in my stomach into the toilet. The cold tile pressed against my skin, grounding me while my body rebelled against itself. Again. This was the third time in two days.

“Cassandra?”

Drew’s voice came from the doorway, rough with sleep and concern. I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe through the waves of nausea still rolling through me.

When I finally wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, I found him standing there—shirtless, arms folded across his chest, brows furrowed in that way that made him look dangerous and worried at the same time.

“You need to see a doctor,” he said.

I shook my head, pushed myself up on shaky legs. “We fly out today.”

“Cassandra—”

“I said we fly out today.” I moved past him toward the sink, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. “I’m fine. Just something I ate.”

“You’ve been sick twice since yesterday.”

“Food poisoning.”

“Bullshit.”

I splashed cold water on my face, let it shock some clarity back into my system. When I looked up, he was still standingthere, jaw clenched, watching me like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.

“Drop it, Drew.”

“No.”

“I don’t have time for this.” I grabbed a towel, pressed it against my face. “Rafael’s expecting us back. I have work. You have—”

“I don’t give a fuck about Rafael right now.” He moved closer, his hand coming up to touch my forehead. “You’re pale. You’re sick. And you’re not getting on that plane until you tell me what’s going on.”

I wanted to push him away. Wanted to build my walls back up and pretend last night hadn’t happened, that he hadn’t touched me like I was something precious, that I hadn’t whispered his name like it was the only word I knew.

But I was so tired. Tired of lying. Tired of pretending. Tired of carrying all these secrets alone.

“It’s nothing,” I said quietly. “Just stress. Too much travel, not enough sleep. It’ll pass.”

His eyes searched mine, and I could see him weighing my words, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he stepped back.

“We leave in two hours,” he said. “Pack light. And if you get sick on the plane, I’m taking you straight to a hospital.”

“Fine.”

He walked out, and I sagged against the sink, gripping the porcelain until my knuckles went white.

***