{Dark: Enemies to Lovers romance.}
"I would get her eyes tattooed inside my brain; yet I would still get lost in them with just one look."
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the rumours has it all that there is a certain man in the underworld who is dangerously attracti...
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The waiting room is silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights above my head. My knuckles are white from gripping the edge of the chair, my leg bouncing in a rhythm that matches the storm inside my chest. The clock on the wall ticks so slowly it feels like I'm stuck in some kind of nightmare loop.
The door to the exam room opens, and I'm on my feet before the doctor even has the chance to step out.
"She's okay, Mr. Rhodes," the doctor says, her voice calm but with a warmth that makes my breath release in relief. "Baby's fine. Strong heartbeat. It was a scare, but everything's normal. Mira can go home, but she'll need to stay on bed rest for the next few weeks. No stress, no overexertion."
Bed rest. I don't care what the doctor says, I'll be hovering over her like a hawk. The thought of anything happening to her to them makes my blood run cold.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice tight. I don't wait for any more explanations. I'm already moving toward the door, my eyes scanning the hallway for Mira. I need to see her, touch her, make sure she's alright.
I reach her room just as they finish wheeling her out. Her face is pale, her eyes tired, but when she spots me, she smiles that smile that never fails to get under my skin. That smile that's all hers, the one that used to taunt me when we were enemies, and now makes my heart squeeze like it's too full to handle.
"You look like you're ready to kill someone," she says with a small laugh, her voice strained but light.
I don't answer. I can't. I just take her hand, squeezing it like I'm afraid she'll slip away if I don't hold on tight enough.
She raises an eyebrow as we walk down the hall, her body leaning against me for support. "You're making me feel like I'm about to fall apart or something."
"You're on bed rest, Mira. I'm not taking any chances," I murmur, my voice low but full of warning. "No more arguing. No more getting out of bed. You don't lift a finger."
She laughs softly, the sound like music in my ears. "Yeah, okay. We'll see how long that lasts."
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "No. I'm serious."
We get to the car, and I help her into the passenger seat, making sure she's settled before I slide into the driver's side. The drive back to the house is quiet, but the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a warm blanket—comfortable, intimate. I glance at her every few seconds, just to make sure she's still breathing, still there, like I might wake up from this dream and find her gone.
When we get inside, I help her to the couch, and I can see the fatigue weighing on her, but she doesn't complain. I know better than to push her. The doctor said no stress, and I'm about to make sure nothing will even remotely resemble it.
I grab the blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over her, making sure she's comfortable. I adjust the pillows behind her so she's lying flat, then sit beside her, my body still tense with the need to protect her, to make sure she's okay.
