"You can't do this."
The harsh, familiar voice pulls my attention away from my daughter, and I look up, my blood running cold when I see the woman standing in the middle of the nursery, arms crossed, a stern expression cutting deep lines into her usually attractive face.
"Mother?"
"You can't do this," she repeats, her eyes darting down to where I'm cradling my daughter.
Except when I look down, the baby is no longer there. My arm is still crooked, but there is a deep, raw wound running the length of my inner forearm, blood oozing from wrist to elbow.
Terrified, I look up again, only to find my mother clucking her tongue.
"No!" I scream. "I didn't do this."
"Are you sure?" she asks, and I realize I'm not. I'm not sure at all.
I look around wildly, wanting answers. Wanting help.
But we are no longer in the nursery. We're in the kitchen. And in my other hand, I'm holding an aluminum can top, its jagged edge stained with blood.
"See?" my mother says.
I can't speak. I can only shake my head as I search the room, trying to remember what it is that I've lost. "The baby!" I finally shriek, as my blood falls in red splotches onto the pristine white floor. "Where's the baby?"
I'm standing at the sink, and I look out the window, only it's no longer a window, and we're no longer in the kitchen. Now, I'm on a balcony, leaning against a metal railing, and we're so high up the world below looks like a drawing, and I have no idea where we are because the earth is too far away and unfamiliar to recognize.
But then I see the baby tumbling through space toward the ground.
"Ashley!" I scream, reaching uselessly for my child.
"I told you," my mother says. "Of course, she'll fall. Of course, you can't save her."
"No!"
I dive off the balcony after the baby, but I'm too far behind her. And she's falling and falling and falling, and she's going to crash against the hard, horrible world, and there's nothing I can do. I can't reach her. I can't save her.
But then I see Damien standing on the earth below. He reaches out. He pulls her in, then holds her close.
He saves her, and I start to shake as sweet relief floods through me.
Then I realize the next harsh truth--he can't catch me. Not while holding the baby.
I screwed up. I lost our child.
Thank God Damien was there to catch her, but he can't save me, too.
And as the ground rushes closer and closer, I scream and I scream and I scream.
"Nikki! Nikki, baby, wake up!"
I blink, still sobbing as I slowly come back to consciousness in Damien's arms.
"Damien." My voice cracks on his name, broken by the weight of my emotions.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
I don't. I don't even want to think about it. But I rub the back of my hand under my dripping nose and then draw in a long, deep breath. "She was there," I whisper. "My mother. And I was holding the baby--and, oh, Damien. She was perfect."
It's silly because I know it was only a dream, but my breath hitches as I tell him the rest. About the baby falling. The terror that filled my throat--so raw I can still feel the scream that was ripped from me in those last moments. And then my relief when Damien caught our child, even though I plummeted to the ground.
"It was just a nightmare," he says, holding me close.
I nod because I know that's true, but at the same time, it felt more real than even the news of my pregnancy in the first place.
With a frown, I curl up even closer to him. We're in bed, and the last thing I remember is lying next to him as we watched a new spy thriller that Damien rented off the hotel system. I recall the set up and a car chase, but nothing after that, and I realize that I must have drifted off, sucked once again into the pregnancy vortex and then down, down, down into sleep and dreams.
Now, a news program is playing on the muted television. Either the movie is over, or Damien got bored. But he's still in the same jeans and pale blue T-shirt, so I don't think that much time has passed. Certainly, it's not yet morning.
I don't nap well--I always wake up disoriented, and right now I'm still trying to get my bearings. I glance toward the window and see the city lights sparkling in the dark. "Is it late?"
Damien shakes his head. "Not very. You slept through the movie, but I promise you didn't miss much."
A hint of a smile brushes my lips. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep." I sit up, then scoot back so that I'm leaning against the upholstered headboard. I want to shake it, but the dream still lingers, and I clutch the sheet in my lap, twisting it in my hands. "It seemed so real," I whisper.
"But it wasn't, baby. Just thoughts. Just your mind sorting through everything." He shifts so that he's facing me, then cups my chin and tilts my head so that I have no choice but to look right at him. "But you're not your mother. And I will always--always--catch you."
I draw a breath and manage a wobbly smile. "I know," I say truthfully. "I guess I just woke up too soon."
"Or just in time. I'm here, aren't I? And you woke up in my arms."
I laugh and nod as my eyes well again with tears. I blink furiously to hold them back, then I slide my fingers into his hair and pull him toward me, my mouth closing hard over his. The kiss is raw and deep, but I want it deeper. I want the connection--physical, emotional. And I want his strength.
Most of all, I want to always feel the way I do in Damien's arms. Confident. Loved. Strong enough to face the world. "We can do this," I say as I gently break the kiss. "Maybe it's not the best timing, but you're right. This is our child, and we can make this work. Can't we?"
"Hell, yes," he says, then kisses me hard and fast, his face shining with triumph. "You know we can. What can't we do when we're together?"
I'm crying openly now. Not in fear this time, but relief. And, yes, in joy. "I love you," I whisper.
"That's a good thing." His smile lights his eyes. "Because we're going to have a baby."
"Ashley." I tilt my head up to meet Damien's eyes. "In my dream, her name was Ashley."
Slowly, he presses his hand against my belly. "Ashley," he repeats. "It's perfect." He meets my eyes. "Of course, it might be a boy."
"True," I say, then flash a grin. "A boy like Damien Stark. He'll be a handful."
Damien laughs and kisses me. "He certainly would."
I'd changed into a tank top and yoga pants the moment we got back to the hotel, and now his hand slips under the tank, and the sensation of his palm against
my bare skin sends shivers through me. Slowly, he eases his hand up my body, tracing the curve of my waist and then grazing over my ribs before cupping my breast. His thumb finds my nipple and begins a gentle, rhythmic caress that has me biting my lower lip as tendrils of wanton heat spread out through my body, firing my senses and making me whimper with longing.
"Nikki."
His eyes meet mine, and I see the tension in them. An unfamiliar hesitancy that I don't understand, because when has Damien ever hesitated where I am concerned? He has always been bold, taking what he wants--and what I so willingly give him.
I frown, wanting to ask him what's wrong, but before I get the chance, his hand abandons my breast to slide back down, so it rests just below my bellybutton. "Is it okay?"
At first, I don't understand his words, spoken with such sweet tenderness. Then I realize that he's talking about the baby, and I smile, utterly charmed. I rest my hand on his, then start to ease it down beneath the stretchy waistband of my yoga pants. "Yes, please," I say sincerely, as a fiery need sparks inside me. "It's more than okay."
"You're sure?"
I can't tell if he's teasing me or truly uncertain. "I'm beyond sure," I promise him. "You. Hormones. I don't even know. I don't even care. But please, Damien. Please. I need to feel you inside me. Right now. I need it as desperately as I need to breathe."
"Do you?" he says, with a deliciously wicked gleam in his eyes. "I think we can do something about that."
I whimper a bit because the next thing he does is pull his hand out from under the band of my pants, which isn't exactly the direction I want him to be moving. But then he shifts on the bed until he is straddling me, and his hand is under the hem of my tank top, his palm warm against the curve of my waist.
With wicked slowness, he strokes my skin, the friction and the heat making me crazy. I arch up, my nipples straining against the thin material of my skimpy tank top. "Please," I beg.
"Please? Please, what?" His palms graze my ribcage until he reaches the swell of my breasts. I whimper, my skin so sensitive now that even a whisper of breath would shoot straight through my core, making me writhe with need.
"Please, yes," I say. "Please, fast."
His brow cocks. "Fast? Are you sure?" One thumb lazily teases my nipple as the other hand eases the tank higher until both my breasts are exposed. "Slow has its advantages."