Page 54 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

The door opened.

I jerked my head up, my heart leaping into my throat.

Drew walked in, still in his tactical gear, smelling like gunpowder and sweat. His face was hard, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with something I couldn’t name.

Relief flooded through me so fast it knocked the air from my lungs.

He was alive. He was here. He was—

“Cassandra.”

The way he said my name—low, dangerous, filled with fury—made my knees buckle.

He knew.

He had to know.

The room tilted. My vision blurred. And then everything went black.

***

My eyes fluttered open, slow and disoriented. I blinked a few times, my gaze landing on him.

“Drew?” My voice was hoarse, broken.

“Hey.” He sounded calm. Normal. Even though something in his eyes looked like he was drowning. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.” I tried to sit up, winced, and fell back against the pillows. “What happened?”

“You passed out. I brought you to the hospital.”

My brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because you collapsed on my living room floor, kitten. Scared the shit out of me.”

I looked away, my jaw tightening. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He leaned back in the chair, studying me. “The doctor said you’re dehydrated. Exhausted. Running a fever.”

“I’ve been sick. You know that.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “There’s something else.”

My stomach dropped. “What?”

“You’re pregnant, Cassandra.”

The color drained from my face. My lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Eight weeks,” he continued, his voice steady even though something in his eyes looked like he was falling. “The doctor confirmed it.”

I stared at him like he’d just told me the world was ending.

Maybe he had.

“That’s not….” I shook my head, my hands clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. “That’s not possible.”

But even as I said it, I knew it was. The timeline matched. The symptoms made sense now.