Chapter 8 - The Ultrasound in the Dark
The private medical suite on the ground floor of the Lincoln Park estate didn't look like a hospital room, but it had all the necessary equipment. Dorian hadn't waited for morning, nor had he trusted taking me back out into the open streets of Chicago after Moretti’s men had been spotted on the grounds. Within forty minutes of our conversation, Dr. Elaine Mercer had arrived at the back gates in a nondescript sedan, escorted through the security perimeter by Noah himself.
The heavy blackout drapes of the estate’s private wellness room were drawn tight against the storm. The only light came from the blue-white glow of the portable ultrasound machine humming softly beside the examination table.
Dr. Mercer applied a warm, conductive gel across my lower abdomen, pressing the smooth plastic transducer against my skin.
“Let’s see what we have here,” Dr. Mercer said calmly, her eyes fixed on the flickering screen covered in grayscale shadows and floating echoes.
I lay flat on the examination table, my fingers locked so tightly around Dorian’s hand that I probably cut off his circulation. He didn't flinch. He stood beside the table, unmoving, his dark eyes glued to the monitor with an expression of such fierce, unfiltered intensity that it felt like he was trying to burn the image into his memory forever.
For a long, agonizing moment, the room was completely silent save for the soft clicking of the machine.
Then, a sound filled the quiet space.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It was fast, steady, and impossibly loud—like a tiny engine running at full speed, defying the chaos, the danger, and the enemies waiting outside the gates.
A sharp intake of breath hissed through Dorian’s teeth. The hand holding mine trembled—just once—before his grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.
“There it is,” Dr. Mercer smiled softly, pointing at a small, flickering pulse on the grainy screen. “Strong heartbeat. Measuring right on schedule for eight weeks. Everything looks healthy, Mrs. Cross.”
I let out a ragged sob, a wave of emotion breaking through the cold armor I had worn all morning. I turned my head into the pillow, tears streaming down my cheeks, feeling the terrifying, beautiful reality of the life growing inside me.
Dorian didn't say a word. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine, his warm breath mingling with my tears. His lips brushed my temple, lingering there in a slow, desperate kiss that tasted like salvation.
“Our child,” Dorian whispered against my skin, his voice thick with a raw, broken emotion I had never heard from him before. “You’re safe. Both of you.”
Dr. Mercer discreetly wiped the gel from my stomach, handed me a warm towel, and packed her equipment into her medical case. “I’ll leave the prenatal vitamins and dietary instructions on the counter. Rest, Alina. No more running around Chicago, and absolutely no balcony climbing in the middle of a sleet storm.”
Dorian escorted her to the door, spoke in a low murmur to Noah outside the threshold, and locked the heavy oak panel behind them. When he turned back around, the tenderness in his expression had vanished, replaced once again by the cold, calculated focus of a man preparing to execute an enemy.
“Where is Caleb right now?” I asked, sitting up on the table and pulling my sweater down over my stomach.
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Dorian walked over to the desk, picked up his encrypted satellite phone, and pressed speed dial.
“He’s sitting in the security annex on the west side of the estate,” Dorian said coldly, watching the call connect on his screen. “Waiting for Moretti’s confirmation on our next move.”
