I grab her elbow and yank her towards me just so that I can snarl in her face, “Try harder.”
I don’t know what to think when I look at her. I don’t know how to be, who to be. It’s not escaping my notice that she’s lost weight. Her slip hangs off her shoulders, the thin straps revealing her protruding collarbones. Her skin is pale and the arm caught in my grasp feels fragile enough to crumble if I push too hard.
“You coming in here and yelling at me isn’t going to help!” she cries out. “None of this is going to help. God, Uri, you can’t even look at me.”
“Because when I look at you, all I see is betrayal. I trusted you and you stabbed me in the back.”
A broken sob escapes her lips. “Do you really think I need you to tell me how badly I fucked up?”
Her warmth is rubbing off on me and I realize what a dangerous position I’m in. She’s going to lure me in with her siren’s eyes, her soft pleading words, her love for my siblings.
No. I will not be sucked into that black hole again. It may feel like heaven for a few seconds, but I know now that it’s a trap.
So I release her, pushing her off me so that she stumbles back a few paces.
“Please see that, Uri,” she begs as her voice trembles. “I care about getting Polly back just as much as you do. I need you to believe that that’s the truth.”
I swallow the acrid taste in my mouth. Guilt serves no purpose here. It doesn’t bring Polly back even one second sooner. So if Alyssa is torturing herself, locked down here all alone… so be it.
It’s the least she deserves.
“You’re right,” I murmur. “I can’t look at you. And starting from now… I won’t.”
I turn my back on her and start striding towards the basement door. I need distance—room to breathe, to let this cloying guilt work itself out of me. I don’t feel bad for Alyssa. I can’t. I won’t.
“Uri!”
I ignore her. She can scream for me until she’s blue in the face, but I’m not turning back. Until—
“I’m pregnant, you know.”
I freeze at the threshold. All I can hear is her words echoing in my ears, accompanied by the booming thrum of my pulse.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
Then: liar.
I underestimated the little siren. She really is capable of anything. I would’ve thought that stooping this low is beyond her… but I guess I would’ve thought wrong.
I spin around slowly and walk over to her. She looks more fragile than ever, cowering in my shadow, caged between me and the wall by her bed.
“You’re lying.”
She stares up at me, blinking back tears and trying not to let me see her chin wobbling. “I’m not. I’m about thirteen weeks along. Ask Dr. Popov if you don’t believe me.”
Liar.
Pregnant.
Liar.
Pregnant.
Which one do I believe?
“I will check with the doctor,” I growl at Alyssa. “And if you’re lying, I will make you pay.”
Then I stalk out, my heart thundering in my chest.
11
ALYSSA
“I’m having you examined.”
Sighing, I swing my legs off the bed. I’m disappointed, sure. But I’ve been expecting this since Uri stormed out of the basement yesterday after I dropped the bombshell.
Why did I blab?
Because, fool that you are, you thought it would bring you closer.
“Doctor.” Uri holds the door open a little wider. At the very least, I’m glad I’ll be able to see Dr. Popov again. But when the doctor enters, it’s not Emily with her kind smile and easy compassion. It’s a somber-faced man in a white coat, followed by grim Bratva soldiers bearing loads of intimidating medical equipment.
“Where’s Emily?” I ask as the men set up the equipment a few feet from the bed.
“She’s indisposed,” Uri answers in a deadpan voice. “This is Dr. Grigory Tasarov.”
Dr. Grigory gives me only a cursory glance. One of the soldiers sets a chair in place next to my bed. The doctor sinks into it, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the charts in his hand.
Uri stands like a gargoyle in the corner, huge and silent, shadows cloaking his face. It’s hard to blame him, but his coldness is grating. I wish for the billionth time that I never told him about the baby at all.
With a sigh, Dr. Grigory looks me in the eye for the first time since he’s walked in. “Alyssa, how are you feeling today?”
“Pretty disappointed, actually,” I say. “And annoyed. And frustrated.”