Her Swedish Billionaire’s Baby

Chapter 8

Samara started to notice the coolness of the air around her, faint noises but in a second they were secondary to the dull pain she felt all over her body. She tried to recall where she was and how she got there. The beeping machine encompassed with her heart beat was a tell-tale sign she was at some kind of medical facility, but why? Then she remembered, the nightmares, the pain…blackout.

My baby!

She wanted to move her hands and check on her stomach but found that she couldn’t. Opening her eyes was a problem. She tried to speak, to scream, call for help but her mouth was also paralyzed. The beeps from what she assumed was the heart monitor were increasing rapidly. She figured it was because she was terrified…

She was finding out that moving any part of her body hurt. So she lay there praying for answers. She wasn’t sure how much time went by before a nurse came in. She did something to her arm; there was a pinprick and she felt her heart rate beep slowing down. She also found that she could open her eyes.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“In pain.” She said finding to her relief that her mouth was working too.

“We don’t want that,” the nurse checked the drip. “I will give you something for the pain.”

“Will it make me sleep?”

“Yes. That’s how your body recovers.”

“Then don’t.”

“Do it.” Alison was by her bedside, and had woken up in time to hear her refusing the meds.

“Alison…”

“You need to rest and your body needs to recover.”

As she saw her lose the battle against sleep, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Alison must have figured she was asleep when she said, “Bjorn is here too. He’s outside pacing. He seems worried.”

“Tell him the baby’s still here,” Samara mumbled, then her eyes opened wide staring at her sister. “The baby is fine right?”

Alison drew in a breath, “Yeah. The baby is fine. Now sleep.”

*****

Samara was at a Maternity Clinic.

Samara was alone at a Maternity Clinic.

She shuffled her feet against the linoleum underneath her, diamond shaped patterns in the floor, some were white, some were a dull pink color, and the remaining ones were a cross between navy and sky blue. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, soft half moon indentations lingering on her skin.

Alison was in town with Amy, they went to get groceries, and Samara wasn’t allowed to come with. A growl of frustration tumbled its way out of her throat, and she glanced around in apprehension. She didn’t know what to do in these places. Mom hadn’t survived long enough to teach her, and she had basically been raised to avoid getting on the CPS radar by avoiding hospitals. There was nothing remotely comfortable about her situation.

There was pretty-soft maternity scent in there, berries and light summer rains, pumpkins and candles. Samara fidgeted in her seat and tugged Alison’s coat closer around her body. She was always fu*king cold these days.

She wanted Bjorn there.

Wanted him to answer all the damn questions and fill out the paperwork, and generally do everything Samara’s been too tired to do lately. Samara would even let Bjorn take charge, which seemed to be numbers one, two, and three on his list of favorite things to do.

Samara had lost weight, looked more like she did at eighteen, then she should at 25. She was still tall but her waist is tiny, with well-defined abs, thanks to her less than stellar diet, and her daily workout regimen. Her abdomen was making way for her kid now, and she was four and a half months along. She knew, well enough, that she was halfway through her pregnancy, but she was not terribly sure how she’s going to survive the other half.

She attempted to smother the fear she could feel herself emitting, didn’t want to frighten the other mothers and fathers with the smell of mold and neglect. She whimpered, a tiny sound in her throat, she was so sick and tired of feeling nauseous, and she could feel how weak her kid was, struggling to retain any food she ate.

Alison was good about making sure she ate (forcing), but Samara was equally as proficient at making sure her sister was out of the house when she vomited it all back into the toilet, small dry heaves making her child restless with distress.

Small tears trickled down her cheeks then, and she ground her teeth together, forceful pressure, anvil falling from a cartoon sky. She couldn’t have a conversation with people if she was unable to keep from fu*king bawling everywhere.

“Samara Khaled?”

She stood up at the mention of her name, grabbing hold of the plastic seat she’d been sitting on as she swayed in place, dark spots twirling in front of her vision. She could hear the nurse asking if she’s alright, soothing voice, lemon-honey scent of concern, but it was so hard to stand and her knees were too close to buckling.

She looked up to see an unfamiliar face in a lab coat. Doctor, probably. The man smiled down at her kindly, almost Bjorn’s height, and Samara shuddered painfully and pressed cold palms to her stomach. “I think I’d better check you out sooner than later, Ms. Khaled.” His arm was very stable against Samara, and Samara nodded gratefully.

Jesus, this was gonna kill her, never mind custody battles.

She was shuffling, arm in arm with the Doctor when she was assailed by a prickling sensation on her neck. She turned, to see Bjorn standing there.

Samara hadn’t had the strength left to groan in objection, but her inner child was purring contentedly, mocking Samara’s displeasure. It was not that she didn’t want her baby daddy with her, but she already knew Bjorn was going to be overly-worried. Damn pain in the ass. He had insisted on being present at every medical situation after the whole, blackout fiasco; and she’d been trying to honor that. But today was supposed to be in and out; quick – no need to bother anyone. How had he even known?

The look on Bjorn’s face was thunderous and the other pregnant women seemed to shrink back with trepidation as his violet eyes tracked her across the room. The doctor smoothly dislodged Samara’s grip and stepped away, hands turned upward in a placating gesture. Bjorn’s expression didn’t change much, until he was at Samara’s side.

He took one cursory look at Samara and hoisted her into his arms, bridal style, held her with one hand, using the other to press her cold cheeks into his flushed neck. Samara inhaled, against her will, focused on the steady thump of Bjorn’s racing heart. He was frightened. The fear was mostly covered with rage, fire and brimstone, but Samara could smell the terror, all the same.

Bjorn pressed a perfunctory kiss into her hair, spoke softly against Samara’s skin, voice low but warm. “We’ll talk about whatever the fu*k you thought this was, later.”

It was a threat, and Samara cringed automatically, but Bjorn hushed her and continued brushing his hands soothingly against her. She was almost asleep when she shook herself, because she could hear Bjorn talking.