Her Swedish Billionaire’s Baby

*****

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 fu*king 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.

“What? Samara? Sure. I’ll clean the damn thing top to bottom. Give me your foot.” Samara obliged, probably secretly thrilled that Bjorn had to do this, while at the same time she was clearly flushed as hell, left hand wrapped tight around the back of his neck. “Hurry up, Bjorn. We don’t have all day.”

Bjorn laced the other one, tight as Samara liked them and helped her down the stairs, running easy fingers over Samara’s swell. He felt for the baby hungrily, like he didn’t just have his head against her bump an hour ago. The baby sedated, soft and meek, faint breeze as a small reminder of the storm that’d passed.

Bjorn missed feeling the baby’s playfulness, all sand and salt-wind. He wanted Samara to chatter at them, the way she did when she was feeling especially safe and cared for. Samara’s face was pinched as she delicately lowered herself into the passenger seat, former warmth exchanging itself for a sickly pallor.

Bjorn kept one eye on the road and the other angled at Samara, one hand cradled in his lap, disarmingly helpless. “Samara? You okay?”

He hated to ask; knew Samara abhorred the questioning because it made her feel less than, somehow. Brittle blade of grass wilting in the sun, threshold of death as it continued to shudder in the wind. Samara turned to face him, with a tight smile, “M’okay, Bjorn. Just fu*king tired. M’always tired. Think I’m gonna be dead, but I won’t know it, cause it’ll feel the same as being so tired.”

Bjorn’s violet eyes were wide-eyed with panic. He gritted his teeth. He was terrified. That’s what this was. Bjorn carried Samara inside, didn’t ask, simply did. He could see that Samara was already taxed, and she’d done nothing but walk to the car. Samara didn’t complain, and Bjorn had to bite at his own jaw repeatedly, to contain himself. Samara pecked at his neck, once, in exhausted comfort.

She slumped into the warmth of his arms with the most quiet of keens, body shivering tremulously. There was no waiting period, they had an appointment, and Dr. Lee appraised them coolly, beatific smile in place, but it was tempered. Bjorn’s fingers were probably digging into Samara’s flesh too hard but she couldn’t really feel it.

“Dr. Lee,” Bjorn begun, no formality, hushed tones and worry. He had enveloped Samara in anxiety, his scent volatile. The doctor nodded his greeting, gripped one thumb in the loose hold of the other. “You’re the husband, Mr. Fredriksen, and I’ve no doubt you can see that something is wrong with your wife.”

Bjorn did not move. He also did not correct the doctor but Samara was used to that now. Samara shuffled closer to him, and Bjorn bit down on his lip; he could see Samara trying to find protection in any way she knew how.

“Your wife has a rather severe case of gestational diabetes.” Bjorn was momentarily shaken, rattling his brain for where he first heard of that and why. He recalled that he studied a case concerning this in pre-law, at Oxford. A company was refusing to provide medical leave for a pregnant woman suffering from the condition.

“Gestational Diabetes.” Bjorn uttered it dully, he was frozen, jaw tight and teeth bared. “ It’s been a long time since I read up on that. Can you narrow it down for me?”

Dr. Lee smiled forlornly, rose to hand Bjorn some pamphlets that he crushed unintentionally in his free hand.

“Ms. Khaled will seem to sleep all the time, but never feel rejuvenated. She will, most likely, if not already, be experiencing difficulties eating and keeping food down. She’ll be light-headed and dizzy, more often than not, and any stress at all will make her more predisposed to eclampsia, and due to her blood work and blood pressure measurements, this is a distinct possibility.” Dr. Lee rubbed at his eye with one hand, continuing to stare directly at Bjorn.

“She will need to remain on bed rest. Complete and total. I’ll need to provide her with parenteral nutrition, as she and the child are suffering from the lack.” Bjorn narrowed his brow and looked down at Samara, eyelids shut, brown eyes twitching in repose underneath them. Her skin was grayish, and, as if she could sense Bjorn, she tangled herself up further in the coat, and Bjorn hummed in his throat instinctively, an abrupt noise of propriety and love.