Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“Come in,” I call out, smoothing my palms over my dress.
A whole team of people piles into the cabin—four men and one woman, plus Alexei. His face is dark and tense, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line.
Is he that worried about me?
No. I refuse to entertain that possibility. Whatever underlies his decade-long obsession with me, I doubt it’s anything resembling genuine love. If I were truly sick and not just pregnant, I doubt he’d want me. He certainly stayed away when I was unwell before.
The bitter thought catches me off guard. I wanted him to stay away, to leave me alone after my parents’ deaths, didn’t I? Each encounter with him set off the headaches and the bouts of depression, so I was grateful that he stalked me from afar instead of forcing himself into my life.
I don’t resent him for staying away.
I can’t.
That wouldn’t make any sense.
Alexei begins introducing the newcomers, so I force myself to focus.
“—in Switzerland and is one of the top neurologists in Europe,” he’s saying about a short, bespectacled man who’s wearing a pair of gray linen pants and a white linen button-up shirt.
“A pleasure, Madame Leonov,” the Swiss neurologist, whose name I missed, says in French-accented English. “It is wonderful to meet you.”
I give him my most charming smile, even as I wince inside at the “Madame Leonov” bit. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“And this is Dr. Elizaveta Sergeyevna Bureva,” Alexei continues, nodding toward the only woman, a middle-aged blonde wearing a short-sleeved navy dress. “She’s one of the top ob-gyns in St. Petersburg.”
My pulse skips a beat at the “ob” part. “It’s great to meet you,” I say, switching to Russian.
Bureva nods politely and replies in Russian-accented English, “Likewise, Alina Vladimirovna.”
As the introductions continue, I learn that the other two men—Dr. Rousseau, a gastroenterologist, and Dr. Whitman, a hematologist—are from London, where each has his own clinic. I have no idea how Alexei managed to assemble such a world-class team on what must’ve been short notice, or what kind of submarine brought them here, but the more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned.
If nothing else, one of these people is bound to make a mistake that will somehow clue my brothers in to my location. It might be something as innocuous as a note in the cloud about me or a bank transfer into one of their accounts from the Leonovs—Konstantin probably has his hackers scanning the net, looking for that sort of thing.
I picture it, my brothers coming for me, and my stomach tightens as the nausea returns, along with a low-grade throbbing in my temples.
Dammit. I can’t even enjoy fantasizing about an escape.
With effort, I refocus on the conversation.
“—permission, we’d like to take some blood, run a few tests, and do a full-body MRI, focusing on the brain,” the neurologist is saying to me.
I blink. “You brought an MRI machine? Aren’t those huge, and don’t they require special rooms and whatnot?”
“Not this specific prototype,” he replies. “It’s actually a mobile unit that requires less power—not that that’s a concern here.” He glances admiringly at Alexei.
I frown in confusion. “It’s not?” Aren’t we on a boat in the middle of the ocean?
“The submarine is nuclear powered,” Alexei explains as casually as if we were talking about how a cake is made. “It’s another use for our portable reactors.”
If Nikolai or Valery were here, they’d want to know all about this. Atomprom, one of the companies owned by the Leonovs, is the primary rival to my brothers’ nuclear venture. Then again, maybe they already know all about it and are working on a similar use case for our portable nuclear reactors. Either way, I have other things to worry about right now, like the fact that I’m starting to feel dizzy again.
Hoping to hide it, I sit down as unobtrusively as possible.
Not unobtrusively enough, apparently. Alexei’s gaze snaps to me, and his eyes narrow. “You’re ill again?”
I guess there’s no point in hiding it now. After all, these doctors are presumably here for me. “A little bit,” I say and take a deep breath as the throbbing in my temples begins anew. “I think it’s another headache, maybe.”
The doctors already have their notepads out.
“Can you please describe your symptoms for us, Mrs. Leonov?” Rousseau asks.
I inhale and exhale slowly. “Nausea, vomiting, occasional dizziness. I fainted once or twice. Headaches and migraines, but I’ve had those forever, so—”
“How long?” the neurologist, whose name I really should learn, interrupts. “When did each symptom start?”
“The headaches I’ve had since my late teens. They got worse when… well, there was some family trouble when I was nineteen.” I swallow, pushing the memories away. “The nausea and dizziness, that’s only been an issue in the past week or so.”
Since Alexei got me pregnant, I want to add, but I don’t because it’s their job to determine that. I don’t know why this requires a whole team of specialists instead of one ob-gyn, or even just a basic drugstore pregnancy test.