I glanced at the window as the contraction faded. The sky was faded indigo and growing lighter.
Five days.
Fuck it. I’d survived months like this. Five more days was nothing.
Locke crouched as I found peace in that, rescuing my hands from where I’d submerged them in bleach-laden water. “I know you want everything to be perfect. If you come back to bed for a few hours, or at least kick it on the couch, I’ll help you bleach every inch of this place in the morning.”
A reasonable offer, but as the devil stirred in me again, I felt anything but reasonable.
I let him tug me, slowly, to my feet. Then I shoved his hands away. “The only way I’m parking my arse on that couch is if this kitchen is spotless first. So you can helpnowor fuck off back to bed.”
“Orls—”
“What?”
“How often are those Braxton Hicks coming?”
I glared, hating that he was looking at me the same way he had the day he’d told me I was pregnant. As if he knew my body better than I did. As if he knew more aboutlifethan I did. Hating everything from the invisible dirt on the floor to the patience he regarded me with. “I don’t want to wait until?—”
Pain cut me off.
Searing, corkscrewingpain.
I bowed to it, doubling over, clutching Locke’s arm, a flood of liquid gushing down my legs, agony swelling across my abdomen, tight and twisting, before retreating the tiniest bit. “What the—” But my words snarled again, eaten up by the pain resurging, stronger this time, driving a vicious groan from my lungs, more liquid pouring out of me. “Oh shit. Did I wet myself?”
Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.
I waited for Locke to give me the good news, but he didn’t look down. He waited for the contraction to fade, but the respite was so brief he didn’t get the chance to speak before another was on me, lashing and lashing my belly, my back, my legs.
My knees gave out.
Locke held me up, shouting for Nash, and I heard the commotion behind me as Nash stumbled from the bedroom and snapped a light on, revealing that I’d been cleaning like a psychopath in the dark.
Unlike Locke, his eyes were thick with sleep, messy gold hair sticking up in every direction. And he was naked, a fact that seemed so distant as the gnarly band gripping my belly eased up again, a kernel of common sense returning to me.
Wet.
My thighs.
Myfeet.
“Did my waters break?”
By chance, I was still looking at Nash. Dazed, he glanced down and colour leeched from his face, leaving him whiter than anything I’d ever seen.
Paper.
Clouds.
Death.
My heart thudded a slowed beat, fear-fuelled calm stealing over me.
I looked down and the world stopped.
My waters hadn’t broken.
It was blood.