DOM: Chapter 67

I take a sip of my coffee before setting the mug down on the vanity next to my sink.

Dominic waking me up with coffee was where the good part of this morning started and ended.

I pick the mug back up and take an even larger sip.

I think about the little bomb Dom dropped after handing me the mug… that I could have done without.

Spending the night with King, Savannah, and Aspen in a secluded cabin doesn’t sound like a good idea. In fact, it sounds like a really, really bad idea. Add in King’s crazy friend Nero and his wife, Payton, and it becomes a terrible idea. A horrible idea. An I can’t believe anyone thinks this will be relaxing idea.

I know we’re all supposed to be one big happy Alliance now, but the truth is I have no idea if Dominic has even talked to King since that day. Well, other than King apparently calling Dom last night to invite us to Colorado. And I don’t know if King ever realized just how in the dark I was about everything. And I don’t know how Dom and Nero will get along, but I know Nero is crazy protective of his wife… So ultimately, it’s a lot of big, over-the-top personalities and the women they’re obsessive with, all jammed into one cabin.

What could go wrong?

Considering the invite is about as last minute as you can get, I don’t think they were actually planning to invite us.

I grimace at myself in the mirror.

It’s probably because I’ve been avoiding Savannah’s calls—texting her hours after I watch my phone ring and never calling her back.

I groan as I tug the towel from my hair. I’m gonna need more than a cup of coffee to prepare for the grilling she’s gonna give me tonight.

I take my time moisturizing and brushing through my hair. Dom said I had two hours to get ready, and that was an hour ago. So I should still have plenty of time to finish my hair and makeup and pack.

We’re taking a private jet to Denver, and while that just confirms that our whole first meeting was a setup, I’m looking forward to not flying commercial. Not that I need to pack that much for a single night. But this way, I don’t have to mess around with travel-size things, and I can put it all in one bag.

Pulling open the cabinet beside me, I pause.

Last night I was a little out of it after my shower, and I didn’t use the antibiotic cream on my palms like the doctor told me to.

He was really nice, and so was his wife, but I didn’t want to be with strangers, so I rushed through his exam and had them leave.

Sighing, I pull out the large zippered leather bag the doctor’s wife gave me before they left, which I just shoved into the cupboard without opening. It’s worn and looks like a vintage doctor’s bag.

I half watched Doc put some extra bandages and the tube of cream into the bag, but his wife told me she had already filled it with the usual first aid items, so I should keep it handy because I might find them useful.

Heavier than I expected it to be, I set the bag on the counter with a thud and unzip it.

The antibiotic cream is right on top, so I pull that out first, followed by two bandages, and set them aside. Then I shuffle through the rest of the contents, just so I know what’s in here.

More bandages—of every size—a thermometer, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bottle of iodine, a little bag with what looks like medical tweezers, a box of tampons—interesting—packets of blood-clotting powder—yikes—what looks like a sewing kit for stitches—extra yikes—a bottle of prescription painkillers and another bottle of antibiotics with my name on it—guess that could come in handy—and… I pull the last item all the way out. A pregnancy test?

I stare at the box for a long moment.

Why would that be in a first aid kit?

My eyes move back over to the prescription pill bottles. Maybe there are certain drugs you can’t take while you’re pregnant, so you’d want to test first?

I’m sliding the box back into the bag when a thought hits me.

I jam the box into place and pull open the drawer at my hip.

There, right on top, are my birth control pills.

I take them every morning. I try to take them at the same time. I’m not always exact, but it’s always before noon.

My hands are starting to tremble as I lift the packet out of the drawer. I haven’t had my dose for today yet, so I carefully push the pill through the thin foil on the back of the packet.

I place it in my mouth, but my mouth is suddenly too dry to swallow the tiny pill, so I have to grab my coffee in order to swallow it.

But my eyes can’t make sense of what I’m looking at. Because according to the pill I just took, I’m three days late.

My period is never late.

A wave of nausea hits me, but I shove it away.

That’s just my imagination. My mind playing with me.

I’m not pregnant.

I cannot be pregnant.

I put the pills back in the drawer and slam it shut.

Then pull it back open.

I need to pack those.

I pick the packet back up and set it on the counter while the pregnancy test mocks me from inside the leather bag.

Should I take it?

I stand frozen, staring.

What would I even do if I was pregnant?

Would I keep it?

I look down at my body wrapped in a towel.

Could I really bring a child into this world? Have a child with Dominic Gonzalez, a man who runs the freaking mafia?

My hands shake as I press them to my stomach.

I’ve wanted a family of my own so much, for as long as I can remember. I’ve even researched how much it would cost to go to a sperm bank and just knock myself up.

I don’t know that I would’ve ever done it. But I was convinced I’d never fall in love with someone.

Fall in love.

Something twists around my heart, but I can’t place the feeling.

It’s almost… hollow.

Because I think I am falling in love with Dominic. I think I might already be there. But I don’t think he feels the same way, and the thought of unrequited love is too much to bear.

And having a baby with someone who doesn’t love me back…

I look back up at the pregnancy test.

It’s only been three days.

I’ve been under a lot of stress.

I haven’t missed any of my pills.

My eyes move to the packet of pills.

Did I remember to take it in Vegas?

I mean, I was drugged for a night, but I’m on the right day. So unless he found my pills and threw away the one for the morning after our wedding, I must’ve taken it. Plus, I’ve had my period since then.

I snatch my phone off the counter and do a quick search on the effectiveness of birth control pills and what it means when you’re three days late.

The answers I find aren’t answer enough.

The pill is between ninety-three and ninety-nine percent effective. And considering I’m not always taking it at the exact same time, I think that means I’m at the lower end of that. Meaning there’s a seven percent chance of pregnancy every time I’ve had sex with Dominic. Which isn’t helped by the fact that we’ve never used condoms. Not even that first time in the airport. And I don’t think we’ve ever even talked about it.

I set my phone down.

The internet also tells me that being three days late could be a baby or stress or absolutely any other thing.

I pick up my coffee mug.

Is that why Dominic didn’t put on a condom in the airport? Because he planned to marry me all along?

We’ve obviously never talked about kids. We aren’t there. We aren’t anywhere near there. Our relationship was built on lies and deception. And I already half hate myself for how easily I’ve just pushed that all aside simply because I want to make this work. Because I want to be with Dominic.

I start to take a sip of my coffee, then realize what I’m doing and bend over to spit it into the sink.

If I’m pregnant, I don’t think I can drink caffeine.

“Something wrong with your coffee?” Dominic’s voice startles me so much I scream. He chuckles and takes the mug from my hand, then lifts it to his nose to sniff it. “I had two cups already, and it tasted fine to me.”

Mortified at being caught, I say the first thing I can think of. “There was a hair in it.”

Dom raises a brow. “Do you want me to get you a fresh mug?”

I shake my head, hoping the color in my cheeks can be played off from him scaring me and not from me freaking out about the possibility of being fucking pregnant.

Looking at him, I admit to myself that the idea isn’t as terrifying as it should be. And not just because he looks incredibly handsome in his black pants and white shirt. And not because his eyes are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And not because of my name inked across his neck.

It’s just him.

He’s a good man.

A good husband.

“Do you want—” My inner voice starts speaking, about to ask him if he wants kids, but I cut myself off. “Are we exchanging Christmas presents?”

He narrows his eyes slightly, like he knows I was going to say something else. “You don’t have to get me anything, Shorty.”

I banish all thoughts of babies from my mind. “Are you getting me something?”

His mouth pulls into a smirk. “I’m not telling you what your present is.”

“So you did get me something?” Other than pregnant.

I shake my head. I need to stop thinking about this.

I’m not fucking pregnant. I’m just late.

“Finish getting ready. You sure you don’t want more?” Dom gestures to my mug in his hand.

“I’m sure,” I murmur, noticing a line of discoloration across the top of Dominic’s fingers that looks like a bruise.

He sees me looking but doesn’t say anything about it, just dips his chin and tells me, “One hour.”

I watch him walk out of the bathroom, waiting until the door clicks shut behind him before I turn back to the counter.

One hour is not enough time to deal with all this, so I zip up the doctor’s bag and shove it back into the cupboard. I need to finish getting ready.

And I’m not pregnant.