Page 83 of Ruthless Claim

I am not fine by lunchtime.

I’m not fine the next morning either, when I wake up and make the same sprint to the same bathroom, and I’m definitely not fine on the third morning, when I’m kneeling on the tile again at 6:00 a.m. cursing the yellowtail’s existence.

But wait. It hits me that the last time I had sushi was three days ago.

There’s no way this is still food poisoning, right?

Three days of morning nausea is something else entirely and it makes my stomach lurch for reasons other than…that.

My mind immediately goes to the math that every girl has been doing since they hit puberty, and I do it three times because there’s no way I’m wrong.

There’s no way that my cycle, which has been regular since I was fifteen and has never once failed me, is now eleven days late.

Eleven days.

I’ve been so distracted, I hadn’t noticed.

I notice now and I need to confirm whether I’m right or wrong. I rush to a pharmacy half an hour away and buy five pregnancy tests. The cashier gives me a knowing look when she scans them and I flush.

What is wrong with me?

I’m a married woman, dammit.

And even if I wasn’t, it’s no one’s fucking business that I may or may not be pregnant.

I bring them home in a paper bag that I shove under the bathroom sink like it’s evidence I need to hide, before I escape into the bedroom and stare at a wall.

My mind is racing.

There’s no way I’m pregnant.

I’m twenty-six and barely keeping a marriage together.

My mother will lose her mind and my brother who⁠—

I stop and take a breath. There’s no point in freaking out when I don’t know if I’m pregnant or not. With that, I glance at the bathroom door and take another breath.

Be brave, Val.

I walk into the bathroom and take the first test.

It’s positive before the three minutes are up, both lines so dark there’s no squinting required. My mind dries and I stare at it before I dive toward the paper bag for the second test. I take it. Also positive. The third, fourth, and fifth tests are, in order: positive, positive, and positive.

I’m—I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant with Cillian Brennan’s child.

Holy fuck.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub with all five tests lined up on the counter like a very specific art installation.

My brain is going at a million miles an hour and I don’t know how I feel.

Shock, obviously, is my overwhelming emotion right now, but terror is probably the loudest. I never sat down and thought about motherhood as something that was going to happen to me, especially in a forced marriage with a man I hated on my wedding day and am now⁠—

I press both hands over my mouth.

But under the terror is something else. Something small and warm and completely irrational.