Chapter 241
Lucas's POV
I returned to the bedroom and scooped Sophia up from the blood-soaked sheets, her body limp and trembling in my arms. She didn't fight me this time—just hung there, silent, her face buried against my chest.
The blanket I'd wrapped around her was already soaked through, the dark stain spreading across the white fabric. I could feel the warmth of her blood seeping through my shirt, sticky and wrong.
Fuck. Fuck.
Claire was still in the hallway when I stepped out, her arms crossed, her expression cold and calculating.
"What did you do to her?" she asked, her voice sharp.
"Get out of my way, Claire."
"I asked you a question—"
"And I don't have time for your bullshit." I took a step forward, and she must have seen something in my face that made her think twice, because she finally stepped aside.
I brushed past her without another word.
---
The ambulance was already waiting outside, lights flashing, back doors open. The paramedics rushed forward the second they saw us.
"Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?" one of them asked—a woman with short dark hair. What happened?
"Elle saigne," I said, my French rough but functional. "From—from her vagina. I don't know why."
They took her from me and laid her on the stretcher. I watched, helpless, as they checked her vitals, their movements quick and efficient.
"Le pouls est faible," the dark-haired paramedic said. "Tension artérielle basse. Il faut partir." Pulse is weak. Blood pressure's low. We need to move.
"I'm coming with her," I said in English, already climbing into the back of the ambulance.
---
The ride through the Paris streets was a blur of beeping monitors and urgent voices speaking rapid French. I sat beside Sophia, holding her hand, watching the paramedics work.
She looked so small. So fragile.
"Is she going to be okay?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
The dark-haired paramedic glanced at me, her expression carefully neutral. "On fait tout notre possible, monsieur." We're doing everything we can, sir.
That wasn't an answer. That was a fucking cop-out.
I looked down at Sophia's face, pale beneath the oxygen mask, and felt something twist in my chest.
She wasn't a virgin.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and unwelcome. We'd been together before—three years ago, before everything fell apart. But tonight had been different. The way she'd tensed when I pushed inside her, the way she'd cried out in pain—it wasn't normal.
And she'd told me to stop.
I clenched my jaw. She'd told me to stop, and I hadn't listened. I'd thought she was just being dramatic, that the drug was making her overreact.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
The ambulance lurched to a stop. The back doors flew open, and suddenly we were moving again—through the hospital entrance, down a brightly lit hallway, voices shouting medical jargon in French I couldn't follow.
They wheeled Sophia through a set of double doors, and a nurse stepped in front of me.
"Monsieur, vous devez attendre ici." Sir, you need to wait here.
"Like hell I do—"
"Monsieur." Her voice was firm. "Les médecins doivent l'examiner." The doctors need to examine her.
So I stepped back and watched them disappear through the doors.
---
The waiting room was sterile and cold. I sank into a plastic chair, my head in my hands.
She wasn't bleeding because of a hymen. She's not a virgin. So why—
The thought circled in my head, over and over.
An hour crawled by. Then another. I paced the length of the waiting room, my hands shaking, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
Finally, a doctor appeared. She was middle-aged, her scrubs pristine, her face professional but tired.
"Monsieur Reynolds?"
I shot to my feet. "Is she okay?"
She gestured for me to follow her to a quieter corner.
"Mademoiselle Cruz est stable," she said, switching to accented English. "But there are some things you need to know."
"What things?" I demanded.
"She is pregnant," the doctor said. "About nine weeks along."
I stared at her, the words not quite registering. "What?"
"The bleeding was caused by the intensity of the sexual activity. It put significant strain on the cervix and caused some tearing, which led to the hemorrhaging. Fortunately, the fetus is still viable. The heartbeat is strong."
Pregnant.
The word echoed in my head, over and over.
"She didn't miscarry?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
"Non," the doctor said. "But she is at high risk now. We will keep her overnight for observation, and I strongly recommend abstaining from intercourse until she is past the first trimester."
I nodded, barely hearing her.
Pregnant. Nine weeks.
I did the math in my head, my stomach twisting. Nine weeks ago, we'd been—
Fuck.
---
The doctor left, and I stood there, frozen.
She's pregnant. With my baby.
At first, the realization hit me like a wave—something bright and overwhelming. Joy, maybe. Or triumph. She was carrying my child.
Mine.
But then, slowly, the feeling curdled into something else. Something darker.
She didn't tell me.
Nine weeks. She'd known for how long? A month? Two? And she hadn't said a fucking word. She'd let me touch her—let me fuck her—and she hadn't told me.
Why?
I thought back to the past few weeks, the way she'd been acting. The nausea. The exhaustion. The way she'd flinched every time I got too close.
It all makes sense now.
But instead of making me feel better, it made me feel worse. Because if she'd known, if she'd been keeping this from me, then what else was she hiding?
I started pacing again, my hands shaking.
Does she even want this baby?
The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. What if she'd been planning to get rid of it? What if tonight—what if the bleeding had been her way of—
No.
I shook my head, trying to push the thought away. But it wouldn't leave.
What if she doesn't want it? What if she doesn't want me?
And then, slowly, another thought crept in. One I hated myself for even thinking.
Does she even deserve to carry my child?
---
They wheeled her into a private room an hour later. She was still unconscious, her face pale, her body small and fragile under the thin hospital blanket. I stood in the doorway, watching her.
The doctor had said the baby was fine. That it was still alive, still growing inside her.
But looking at Sophia now—at the way she lay there, so still, so broken—I couldn't help but wonder.
What am I supposed to do with this?
I walked over to the bed, staring down at her. My eyes drifted to her stomach, still flat, still unchanged. But there was a life growing in there. A life that was half mine.
My child.
The thought should have filled me with something—pride, maybe. Or protectiveness. But all I felt was a cold, creeping sense of dread.
Because I didn't know what she wanted. I didn't know if she'd even keep it.
And I didn't know if I could trust her anymore.
---
Sophia stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. For a moment, she just stared at the ceiling, her expression blank. Then she turned her head and saw me.
Her face didn't change. No relief. No fear. Just—nothing.
"You know, don't you?" she said, her voice flat and emotionless. "I'm pregnant."
I nodded, my throat tight.
She looked away, her gaze drifting back to the ceiling. A bitter smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"After all that bleeding," she said quietly, "the baby should be gone by now, shouldn't it?"
She acted so calm; had she never even thought about giving birth to our child?