Her Swedish Billionaire's Baby: A BWWM Pregnancy Romance For Adults (13 page)

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.

“
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 fucking
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.

He was so damn gone
on Samara. Like a house of bricks on sand, plundered by the waves. He
had restrained himself, was cognizant of the fact that his inherent
aggression would not serve Samara well, here.

The doctor was
smiling, as if he knew this was difficult and was loathe to give this
speech. “Of course, we will monitor her, and if the condition
alters, we can lessen some restrictions. But your wife will not get
better on her own. We need to jump start it, for her.” Bjorn
grunted, and looked away from Samara for a second.

“
She
won’t like this. She’ll fight me every step.”

Dr. Lee grinned, the
first real emotion that had flickered across his face so far. “She
seems hard-headed. I wouldn’t enjoy crossing her.” His
grin faded and was replaced with a calculating look. Bjorn sat up,
hairs on the back raised. He could see that the doctor was
determined, of a sudden, and he was not the cause.

“
Man
to Man, Mr. Fredriksen, I’m not a fan of imposing rules on
mates. Not as a matter of routine, of course. But I would advise that
you consider it, strongly.” He sat back down suddenly, forearms
on thighs, and leaned into Bjorn’s space.

“
She
will die, and the baby too, if she’s allowed to continue on
this way. It’s your responsibility to avoid that.” Bjorn
nodded his full agreement, knew Dr. Lee recognized and accepted the
response, because his shoulders sagged, and he relaxed minutely.

“
The
Clinic will provide nursing staff to the address you indicated when
you filled out your paperwork. They’ll be by to set up
everything needed for IV therapy.” The doctor seemed
thoughtful, examined Bjorn’s protective crouch over Samara’s
prone body. “I don’t foresee you having many issues.”

Bjorn rose, gave Lee
a brief smile; he was a kind man, for all his personal advice and
attention to details. The doctor walked him out, spared a wistful
smile for Samara. “She’s a beautiful woman, Mr.
Fredriksen. You’ll have very good looking babies.” He
paused, laying a hand on Bjorn’s shoulder. “Once the baby
is getting food again, it’ll perk up more. It is suffering from
just as much fatigue as its mother, only it will become worse
quicker, for it. It doesn’t have a lot of ways to combat this.
Apart from decimating its mother.”

As Bjorn buckled
Samara into her seat, resting her head delicately against the window,
he wondered if there wasn’t some capricious God out there that
needed Samara dead for his own endgame.

Bjorn carried Samara
upstairs, to her bedroom, and Samara remained undisturbed, only
moving to shudder once, and whisper Bjorn’s name. Bjorn had
Samara enthroned in her bed, body tangled solely in Bjorn’s
green over shirt. Samara was a bit warm upon the return, and Bjorn
wrestled her out of her underwear, smiling cheekily as he imagined
Samara’s response, were she awake.

‘
M’not
a cheap whore, Bjorn.’

He kissed Samara four
times on her head and left, striding purposefully to his car and
called to ask when Alison thought she would be home.

Samara clenched
blazing fingers around the backs of her upper thighs, stab wounds in
soft flesh. Her legs were curved up and pressed as close to her chest
as possible, and Bjorn had broader palms curved over Samara’s
hands, helping her with the support. Bjorn’s fingers were
gently tangled in the IV hooked up to Samara’s neck, needle
attached to the main blood vessel there, and she grimaced. The
cloying smell of blood was washed away by the smell of Bjorn, but it
still lurked, constantly.

Bjorn sliced his hot
tongue through slick and grazed incisors ever so gently over Samara’s
spasming hole. Samara curved one hand over her belly, scent of
restless baby mingling with the smell of daddy’s arousal, and
Samara’s anticipation, diamond-hard shine and chocolate.

Bjorn rose from
between her legs, swollen lips and self-satisfied smirk.

“
What
do you want, baby?”

Samara huffed
angrily, struggling a little to breathe from arousal and the press of
her knees to the swell of her stomach. Bjorn lifted the offending
weight up, cradling her kneecaps with the kind of smile Samara didn’t
want to examine too closely.

“
Shut
the hell up, Bjorn. You know what I want.” Gritted it out,
barely, searching for scraps of dignity to clothe herself in. How
Bjorn made her into this whimpering, mewling mess evaded her. She
blushed, turning her head to the side so that she couldn’t see
Bjorn looking at her anymore. Bjorn growled, non-threatening, but
pained, and angled Samara’s face back into his line of sight.