Her Swedish Billionaire's Baby(34)

 

Samara tilted up her own face, reached lead-heavy arms to Bjorn’s stained cheeks.

 

“It would have served your sorry ass right you know? But I wouldn’t. Jesus Bjorn, you’re a damn idiot if you think I’d ever run away from you. It was you from the first moment I set eyes on you. It’s always been you.”

 

Bjorn swiped at his nose, collected himself, tugged command back into his voice. “Just pee so I can take you home. I don’t want you out of my sight.”

 

Samara allowed Bjorn to keep a firm grip on her waist as she sat on baby-lamb legs to pee in the small cup Bjorn held for her, wincing at the enforced intimacy of it. Bjorn capped it, tucked it in his front shirt pocket and lifted Samara again.

 

She only sighed this time, drained to the max, even though she had done nothing, all day.

 

Dr. Lee was pointy teeth and knowing eyes, could probably smell Samara’s embarrassment, all the way across the room. “I’ll have you fill everything out at the front desk, alright?”

 

Bjorn handed the doctor the sample, sheepishly. “Thank you, Dr. Lee.”

 

Dr. Lee smiled down at Samara, peering into leaden eyes. “You listen to your husband, until our next appointment, you understand?”

 

Samara snorted under her breath.

 

Now there’s an idea.

 

 

 

Bjorn moved both Alison and Samara into his penthouse on the beach. Samara wasn’t sure about it but Alison sided with Bjorn on that one, stating that she needed more care than Alison could provide alone. The guilt of the huge burden she was placing on her sister made her agree. That and the fact that Chris was lurking about. The penthouse was nowhere near as accessible as their apartment.

 

 

 

Samara’s lab work came in when Bjorn was on the outskirts of the city, buying groceries.

 

Samara hasn’t had any particularly strange food cravings, getting her to eat anything at all had been enough of a struggle. Samara wouldn’t eat any starches, Alison had made six burgers in four days, and Samara had taken approximately seven bites. (Tuesday was an exciting day).

 

He’d got five bags full of fruits alone, Samara didn’t dislike those, just tended to overlook them, and Bjorn thought now might be a good time to get her addicted. She had been consuming cherries like they were going out of style, apologetic grunt as she did so, one protective hand encircling the well-pronounced bump of her stomach.

 

Samara’s first trimester was completed, only had one and a half more months until the baby was viable. Bjorn didn’t know how he was going to solve this. He didn’t want Samara to meet her kid like she was just the host of her own party, mingle with no resolution.

 

Samara called when he was navigating the cart to the Mercedes, one handed, while he patted himself down for the keys. He was feeling lazy, blissful in the knowledge that he was taking care of his family (preserving them), wildly intent, indoctrinated crusader.

 

Bjorn swiped open his phone with no light amount of consternation. Samara never called him, not if she could truly help it. Most phone calls they exchanged were related to the baby’s health, no one called just to check up, or in.

 

“What’s wrong? Samara?”

 

Samara’s voice was muffled, snort of laughter trickling through the line, assuaging Bjorn’s concern nearly instantly.

 

“Calm down, Dark Knight. Clinic called. Got my lab results back, want to see if we can come in immediately.” Bjorn inhaled anxiously burying the fear, and he still heard Samara’s instinctive intake of breath.

 

“M’fine, Bjorn. He would’ve told me if I were within walking distance to my death.” Samara snickered at her own joke, self-deprecating, aware of how true this was.

 

“I’m on my way home, Samara. Can you be ready when I get there?”

 

Samara sighed, and Bjorn could hear the catch of her breath as she stood. “Can’t fucking see my boots to tie ‘em so you’ll need to do that.” Bjorn flushed, driving already, fruits and hopeful grains tossed haphazardly in the backseat.

 

“No problem, baby.”

 

Samara grumbled a bit, Bjorn knew she was uneasy with the pet name, welcomed it and shunned it in equal measures, two faces of the same demon. She was waiting patiently at the front door when he pulled up, Bjorn’s black Armani coat slung over too-thin shoulders, entire body willowy. She was tangling her fingers in and out of themselves, gnawing at her lower lip compulsively, spit slick and bruised. Bjorn hopped out, engine still running; he wasn’t really sure why he felt so frantic.

 

Heart making itself a home in his throat, tremors of cold tickling at his spine. Samara raised her eyebrows, glanced appraisingly at his car. “Are you gonna freak out if I throw up in your car?” Bjorn snapped his neck back at the SL550 Roadster, mouth half frowning.