5
JESSA
I wake up to nausea and the light patter of raindrops hitting my window.
The guest room in Freya’s family’s estate is more than nice enough. The room is big and the bed is comfortable and the fresh-cut lilies in a vase by the window are such a thoughtful touch.
But all that lovely ambience can't permeate my sleep, apparently.
I tossed and turned all night, dreams plaguing me. At one point, I sat up in bed and saw Marina’s ghost standing in the corner of the room, watching me, as gray and fuzzy and indistinct as she was in that video.
Except for her eyes—her eyes were a bright, eerie blue. She didn’t blink as I tried desperately to wake myself up.
Of course when I did finally wake up, I was alone. Nothing in the corner except the delicate floral wallpaper.
Sleep was elusive after that, and now, I’m tired of trying. I pull back the covers and walk over to the windows. The garden looks like a dream from here. The bright spring colors are a contrast to the gray day and the fresh coating of rain adds a magical sheen to the landscaping.
I stand there for quite a while, my thoughts zipping by like a high-speed train, moving far too quickly to get a clear look.
But my peaceful garden gazing is cut short when a bout of nausea hits me sideways.
“Oh no.”
I rush to the bathroom and just barely make it before my stomach empties. It rips through me ruthlessly. When there’s nothing left to come out, I release my iron grip on the toilet bowl and get to my feet. I wash my mouth out three times over and decide to soak in the clawfoot tub until the feeling passes.
All I can think about is how well Anton took care of me when I fell sick on the job. A man who brings a woman freshly made lemonade can’t be completely evil, can he?
On second thought, maybe I better not answer that question.
I soak until my fingers turn pruny, wishing I could disappear beneath the soapy water and escape my thoughts. Then I get out of the tub and dry myself off. There’s a full-length mirror on the opposite wall of the bathroom, so I drop my towel and go to stand in front of it.
I definitely don’t look pregnant. My stomach, while lacking in definition, is extremely flat. Even my breasts don’t look much bigger than normal.
I run my fingers over my nipples and draw in a sharp breath. They’re sensitive. That’s new.
Though Anton had the unique ability to draw new sensations out of me. I circle my hand over my skin, letting myself imagine him for just a moment.
Then I freeze.
“Goddammit.” I exhale sharply and turn away from the mirror.
I’m here to move on. I have to move on.
I rifle through my suitcase and pick out jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and one of my favorite beige cardigans. Once I’m dressed, I head downstairs to look for Freya.
I find her in the kitchen, sitting in front of a table laden with scones, jams and pastries.
“Hey,” she says when I enter. “Did you sleep well?”
I decide that telling her about my nightmare would be pointless. “I slept fine. Overslept, in fact.”
“Well, you need the rest. So does your baby.”
I nod, eyeing her as subtly as I can. Rubbing my pregnancy in her face is the last thing I want to do. I know she won’t take it that way, but I also don’t know what her triggers are. Traumatic loss has a funny way of erupting again at the tiniest little inclination.
She deserves better than that.
“What can I get you?” she asks, gesturing to the table.