Savage Grace

I’m pregnant.

Gripping the test in my hand, I can’t stop staring at the blue cross in the window.

Tears roll, hot and slow, down my cheeks. I huddle in a low ball, emotion bowing me. My dog, Blue, whines and presses against my side, his warm tongue laving my cheek, his musky scent enveloping me. A familiar comfort.

Will my child love Blue as I do?

My phone vibrates on the bathroom counter, and I hiccup a sob. Squeezing my eyes shut, pressing more tears free, I hold my breath. Blood rushes in my ears, and my heart throbs in my chest…a tidal wave is washing me away. I can’t do this.

The soft ping of a voicemail brings my eyes open. I’m staring at the cross again.

Blue shifts closer, leaning his warm weight against me. As tall as a Great Dane, with the elegant snout of a collie, the markings of a wolf, and mismatched eyes—one blue the other brown—Blue means the world to me.

My heart will have to make room for more.

Fear slices through me, adrenaline flooding my veins and bringing another soft whine from Blue. Standing quickly, the adrenaline demanding action, I glance at my phone.

Robert Maxim.

He can’t know. My eyes trace to the trash can of the hotel bathroom. Wrap up the test and put it in there.

But my hand won’t follow the advice. My fingers grip tighter, refusing to release the small wand of plastic. The proof. The truth.

Grabbing my phone off the counter, I step back into the hotel room. Blue stays close to my hip, his nose tapping my waist once, a gentle reminder he is there.

I shove the plastic wand into my bag, pushing it into a zipper interior pocket and closing it up. Locking it away.

Just throw it out.

I can’t.

My hand strays to my stomach, and Blue’s nose swipes against my fingers. Vision blurred with tears, I stand in the center of the hotel room, my mind reeling. Lightning sizzles across my vision, and thunder ricochets inside my mind.

I’m not cut out for motherhood.
I know I’ll survive. It’s everyone I love who dies.
That changes now.

P.S. The dog does not die.

**Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.**