Chapter 149: Exit After Entry

Amanda's POV

My phone buzzed against my hip. Ethan's name flashed on the screen. My heart skipped—he never called during events.

"What's up?" I answered, balancing a glass of water I'd grabbed for him earlier.

"Probably drunk... feeling awful... room 303..." His voice rasped through the speaker, strained and unfamiliar. The slur in his words sent warning bells ringing through my head.

"Got some hangover meds. Coming now." I hung up, snagging some pills from a server who owed me a favor from when I'd treated his daughter's broken arm.

The hotel corridor stretched empty ahead. Gold-trimmed wallpaper and plush carpet muffled my hurried footsteps. Strange how the door to 303 stood slightly open. A chill ran down my spine as I pushed it.

The room yawned dark except for a slice of light from the bathroom. Ethan sprawled across the king-sized bed, tie yanked loose, shirt half-unbuttoned. Gone was the ruthless CEO who terrified Wall Street. Now just a man, eyes closed, defenseless. It struck me how rarely anyone got to see him this way.

"I brought something for your head," I said, setting everything on the nightstand. The water glass clinked against the wood.

His eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy. "Help me... feel terrible."

A sigh escaped my lips. Typical. Even the mighty Ethan Blackwood reduced to needy mumbles when feeling sick. The thought pulled at something tender inside me despite my irritation.

His tie hung crooked and tight around his neck. Couldn't be comfortable. I tugged it free, tossing it aside. The room felt stuffy, the air heavy and warm. Windows might help. I crossed over, pushing against the glass.

Nothing. Weird.

I tried again, harder this time. The windows didn't budge an inch. Looking closer, I noticed small metal fixtures securing them closed. Why would a luxury hotel permanently seal their windows? Unease crawled up my back.

A groan from the bed interrupted my thoughts. His face contorted in pain.

"Try these," I said, turning back with the pills. Concern replaced my suspicion. Whatever was happening with the windows could wait.

He sat up suddenly, swaying dangerously. His pupils dilated strangely in the dim light.

"Where does it hurt?" My instincts kicked in. I reached for his wrist, ready to check his pulse, mentally cataloging possible causes for his symptoms.

Strong hands grabbed me instead. My stomach dropped as he tumbled backward, pulling me down with him. The mattress sank beneath our combined weight.

"Ethan!" I gasped as he flipped me beneath him, his weight pressing me into the mattress. Panic fluttered in my chest like trapped birds.

"Right here," he mumbled, before his mouth crashed against mine.

My eyes flew open in shock. His hands roamed everywhere, urgent and demanding. Tiny shivers raced across my skin as my body betrayed me, responding to his touch. Heat pooled in my belly even as my brain screamed that something was wrong. A sound escaped my throat—not entirely protest.

"Stop..." The word barely made it past my lips. Shame and desire battled within me. Part of me wanted this—had always wanted this—but not like this. Not with him acting so strangely.

He pressed harder against me, his breathing ragged and hot against my neck. The familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something else—something wrong. His body burned feverish against mine. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Reality snapped back like a rubber band. The baby. Our baby. My hands pushed against his chest, panic rising like floodwater.

"No, Ethan, we can't!" Terror made my voice sharp. Images of blood and loss flashed through my mind.

His eyes blazed unnaturally, pupils blown wide. He didn't hear me. Didn't recognize me. Something was terribly wrong. This wasn't alcohol. Someone had done this to him.

He caught my wrists, pinning them above my head. His lips reclaimed mine with bruising force. Tears pricked my eyes.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His weight crushed me while my mind screamed about the fragile life inside me. A life we'd created. A life now threatened by whatever madness gripped him.

"Ethan, please! The baby—today's not safe!" I thrashed beneath him, desperate to break free. The words tangled with sobs. Fear turned my blood to ice.

Nothing worked. His body caged mine completely. My strength meant nothing against his drug-fueled frenzy.

Heat radiated between us. The room disappeared into gasps and shadows. Disgust and desire twisted together inside me, making me hate myself for still responding to his touch despite everything wrong about this moment.

His eyes—God, his eyes looked animal. Wild. Someone had done this to him. To us. Breathing became harder as understanding dawned. A trap. Someone wanted this to happen.

I stopped fighting. It only made him more aggressive. Tears slid silently down my cheeks as I endured, focusing on protecting my belly as much as possible. Minutes stretched like hours.

Time blurred. Eventually, his movements slowed. His grip loosened. When he finally rolled aside, I immediately checked his pulse, examining his pupils. My instincts pushed through my trauma, giving me something to focus on besides my own pain.

Drugged. Someone had drugged Ethan Blackwood at the Sterling-Blackwood reception. Someone desperate to trap him—or destroy him. Or us both.

Who would dare? The Blackwood name struck terror throughout New York's elite circles. Yet someone had risked everything.

A trap for him? Or for us both? No accident that the windows wouldn't open. No coincidence how easily I'd been summoned here.

I pushed myself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. The man beside me looked peaceful now, handsome face relaxed in sleep. No memory of what he'd done would remain. The burden of knowing would be mine alone.

My hand moved instinctively to my stomach. A flutter of relief—then sudden warmth trickled down my thigh.

Blood.

My face went cold. The room spun briefly. Fingers trembling, I checked my own pulse, counted heartbeats, prayed to a God I'd stopped believing in years ago.

The baby seemed stable, but I needed a hospital. Now. Statistics and survival rates for first-trimester traumas raced through my mind. Twenty percent chance of miscarriage after physical trauma. Higher with stress and previous complications.

I straightened my clothes with shaking hands. No time to wake Ethan—the drug had burned through his system anyway. He'd be fine.

My baby might not.

One last glance at his sleeping form. Would he even remember calling me? Would he wonder where I'd gone? Would he care?

Then I slipped out the door, racing toward the elevator, afraid to think about what waited at the hospital. Each step sent fresh pain through my body.