Instead, my stomach twists, and I jerk back, slapping a hand over my mouth. “Lia Mara,” he says, alarmed. I inhale to answer, to tell him I’m fine. Instead, I throw up all over his boots. “I’m sorry,” I gasp, mortified. “I’m sorry. I’ve—I’ve been sick with worry—” And then, to my horror, I do it again. “Noah!” Grey calls, and there’s worry in his voice. His hands hold back my hair. “Oh yeah,” says Noah, and his voice isn’t concerned at all. If anything, he sounds amused. “About that.”
BITCH IS SO PREGNANTTTT i’m calling it rn and i called it before
