Sancte Diaboli

Saint

I watch as my blood fills the little syringe, slowly and carefully. It’s a much-needed distraction from the weird things I have been imagining. It’s gone from shadows, to faces, to a name. Ava Garcia. I know what I have to do, but it’s going to have to wait until I land back in the United States. I want to study his reaction when I say her name. Maybe I’m having wild dreams that are invading my everyday life, or maybe I’m losing my mind. I guess I’m ready to find out.

“How soon can you get me results?” Madison asks the doctor, whose loafers cost more than some cars. Huh. Why am I not surprised?

“For you, I can have it back within a couple of hours.”

“Thank you,” Madison says, resting her head back on the sofa.

I clear my throat. “Will this work? I mean, because Bishop and I are only half-siblings? I know that we share fifty percent DNA, and half, like—” I pause, trying to rack my brain. “Twenty-five percent. Will this work?”

The doctor nods his head, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Yes, because you and he still share twenty-five percent of that DNA, which this baby will hold fifty percent of his DNA. If this comes back inconclusive, it means the child is not his.”

Madison lies backward on the sofa as another doctor rubs jelly over a small ultrasound wand.

“I’m nervous,” Madison whispers.

“Have you had an ultrasound yet?” I ask, watching as the nurse rubs the wand over her belly.

“No.” Her cheeks flush. “I guess I haven’t felt like I wanted to. And at first, I didn’t know if I was going to keep it.”

Thud. Thud.

The heartbeat is the first thing I hear, and I turn my head farther, wanting to get a clear view of the screen.

“There’s your baby,” the nurse says, pointing to the screen. The doctor drawing blood from me pulls the needle out of my vein and I flinch, snapping me back to what he’s doing.

Thud, thud, thud.

“And there’s the other one!” The nurse smiles at the screen.

My eyes swing up to the little monitor.

Madison’s face falls. “What?”

The nurse points again. “Two babies in different sacs. They won’t be identical, so it could be a boy and a girl. Lucky.” The nurse was young, and if I’m guessing, she and the doc have a thing going on. The chemistry between them is hot, spicy even. I could reach out and touch it.

“No!” Madison yells, shaking her head. “Two? Oh my God, no!”

“Madison, hey, it’s okay,” I say, and once the doctor is finished up with me, I make my way to her.

I feel her calm as I sit beside the couch and lay my hand on her arm.

She searches my eyes, tears falling down the corners. “I’m sorry. It’s just, you look like him at times and I wish—”

I squeeze her arm. “It’s going to be fine.” I couldn’t tell her that I was internally screaming with the fact she was going to have twins. The birth alone would terrify me.

The nurse continues, “You’re safe to have the extraction. Would you like to do it here or the doctor can take you into a bedroom?”

“Here,” Madison whispers, her hand on mine. “Here is perfect.”

After the mini-hospital has packed up, I close the door behind them and keep my eyes on Madison, who still seems to be freaking out in the lounge. She has her phone pressed to her ear as she talks to someone. I hear her say dad, so I decide to give her some privacy, moving into the kitchen to find something to eat. Amongst the chaos of getting here, I forgot to eat. I find fresh fruit and sliced deli meat. I take them out and place some grapes on a plate with shaved ham, grabbing a bottle of water and moving to the kitchen table. Opening my phone, I find a text from Bishop.

Bishop: How is she?

I want to yell at him and tell him that they’re both being stubborn and ridiculous. Now that I’ve met her and I’ve seen how affected she is by their separation, from the outside looking in, it doesn’t logically make sense. They love each other with such ferocity it could burn, so why aren’t they using that same violent passion to stay together? They’re both clearly tenacious in their ways.

Saint: About as good as you.

He doesn’t reply, and I open Tillie’s message thread. She’s yelling at me. I’m not surprised. I send her off an I love you text and leave it as that.

Tillie: I think you were put on this earth to stress all of us out.

No text from Brantley. Closing her message, my finger hovers over his name. Every time the cushion of my finger touches the screen, my heart beats so loud I almost can’t hear anything else. Unsure of what to even say, I choose something simple.

Saint: I’m sorry.

I don’t know why that’s all I could think of to say, but I felt I needed to say it. I don’t mean to stress him, or anyone, but I realize I do put a lot of unwanted tension on Brantley.

The message bubbles light up. And then stop. And then light up again before my phone dings, just as I pop a grape into my mouth to stop my guts from spilling out from all the nerves.

Brantley: For which part?

Saint: You’re still mad.

Brantley: Yup.

Saint: What can I do to make you forgive me?

When he doesn’t reply right away, I pick at my food. Madison is still on her phone, walking back and forth furiously, sobbing and ru

My phone vibrates, and I pick it up, throwing another grape in my mouth.

I stop chewing. 1 new MMS. An image pops up and I’m suddenly staring right at Brantley’s cock. His hand is wrapped around the base. Ta

My phone vibrates again with a new message from him.

Brantley: For starters? You can sit your pussy on my face and wrap your lips around this.

My phone slips from my hand, and I quickly catch it.

He texts again.

Brantley: Don’t fucking text me again until you’re on US soil.

I turn off my screen and flush, my thighs clenching together. Shit.

“Sorry about that,” Madison says, swiping the tears away. Her cheeks are swollen red, her eyes puffy. She makes her way to the coffee pot, pouring the black liquid into a mug. “They say this stuff is bad for the baby—” She pauses, laughs, and shakes her head. “Babies, but I say whatever right now.”

She heads for the fridge and pulls open a drawer. “Do you want wine?”

I shake my head. “I’m good. Not much of a drinker. Unless I’m—”

“—partying. I get it. I’m just old and I really miss wine.” She slams the door closed and drops onto the chair, sipping on her coffee. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

I shuffle in my seat, picking at the grapes on my plate. “Well, whatever you decide, I will support you, but please, just—”