Page 59 of Broken & Bound

“We? Or you?”

“It’s just for a while. I need to think.”

A numbness crept over me, darkening my soul. All I could do was support her. Give her what she asked for. Even if it killed me.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

I turned to leave.

“Lev…”

I lifted my gaze to hers. The distance was growing between us already. I wanted to beg her to keep it, to give us a chance. But that would be wrong of me to do. If I thought her early words asking for space gutted me, her next ones killed me where I stood.

“I don’t want anyone to know. I know Marcel is aware of our relationship, but he can’t know this.”

Was she really asking me to carry this alone?

“Bella…”

“No one can ever know. Promise me.”

She absolutely asked that. I hadn’t mistaken her. The reality crushed the remaining air from my lungs. She was shutting me out, retreating behind her walls. And where did that leave me?

Standing on the other side, fucking alone.

I had no one. No outlet, no relief. Just the unbearable silence.

“Please,” she begged. “Just…don’t. I can’t handle anyone else knowing.”

Shattered, and broken in places I didn’t know a person could be, I nodded. Whatever she needed, I’d do.

“I won’t say anything.” I offered the words she needed to hear. “But you’re asking a lot, Isabella.”

The numbness in my chest grew. Who did I have to turn to if not her? If not Marcel? The last time I felt this lost was Mischa’s funeral. I took a step toward the bedroom—to give her space. Her hand shot out, gripping the back of my T-shirt.

“I’ll need to make an appointment. Will…would you come with me?”

Everything in me wanted to pretend the comment hadn’t gutted me. I wasn’t sure I was that good an actor. I breathed through it and then cocked my head to the side.

Could I honestly do that? In the second it took for the question to form, reality hit. And with it, an image. My princess—sitting in a waiting room—all alone. Carrying this by herself. The startling truth was, if I didn’t, she’d go alone.

The answer came out in Russian, and I immediately repeated it in English.

“Of course. Just let me know when.”

Pasha walked away, his agreement to accompany me ringing in my ears. The hurt in his eyes was crushing. The devastation etched into his beautiful face would be something I remembered for the rest of my life. It broke my heart to know that his pain was my fault.

How the hell had I let this happen?

My knees felt weak, and I sank down onto the floor, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could somehow hold all the pieces of my life together. Alone in the silence of my bathroom, the walls closed in. My breath came in shallow gasps, and tears streamed down my face.

Anger bubbled up inside. This was my fault. I should have been smarter—planned better. This should never have happened. I walked into my room and flopped onto my bed, crawling under the covers. A sob tore its way from my throat.

“How fucking stupid can you be?” I asked the empty room.

My body shook as I broke into a million pieces. The fear of being a mother, of not being ready, of failing in all aspects of life, it was too much. My hands landed on my stomach, and I traced it as the tears fell.

The thought of carrying a child, of the responsibility, terrified me. But the thought of losing Pasha, of the rift now between us, was unbearable.