I use military time in this. Also, I might have to change the rating at some point. This isn't your typical fluffy Royal Pains story…

She only stared blankly at the wall, lost in thought, numb, while the doctor's words raced past her, barely brushing her conscience. Explanations, advice, even a note of congratulations, though it was most likely no more than a professional reflex even at thirty-two.

"Marisa? Did you hear what I just said?" Nodding, she repeated his words verbatim, her tongue effortlessly wrapping around the Greek and Latin that had been the bane of her existence in medical school. His eyebrows edged closer to his hairline, thrown off guard. At the moment, she possessed neither the energy nor the concern to explain she was a geneticist. At this point, knowing she held an MD would probably only intimidate him and beget more headaches than it was worth. Sacrificing her pride and allowing him to patronize her was a reasonable price to pay to maintain what little remained of her sanity.

"No one came with you tonight…" he at last broke the silence. "Is the father supportive?" The poor man sounded uncomfortable, embarrassed almost. He was skilled, but oh so young for his profession. Of course, not that she was much older…

"He couldn't get off work," she dismissed shortly, falling silent again. "This is not the last time I will see you."

She could see no reason to burden him with the labyrinthine details of her personal life. At 1800, he had no doubt encountered enough hysterical and overtly hormonal, emotional women for a single day. Marisa couldn't contain a silent laugh at the double-edged irony. In truth, Boris had been quite disturbed at discovering she had yet another doctor's appointment and being disallowed to come.

"Have a good night," he offered at last, tearing a script from his pad and holding it out to her.

Firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls of the library. Red, yellow, and orange illuminated the blackness around her, the leaping flames mesmerizing. Exhaustion wove itself into her form, but sleep refused to come. She cast a furtive glance to Boris from the corner of her eye. She needed him so desperately, but she didn't dare reach out for fear that he would burn her. To see the utter hatred and condemnation burning in his eyes for what she had done. Caustic guilt ate away at her soul, though half of her knew it was senseless and misplaced. She couldn't bear to have him think that of her. Yet, selfishly, she needed a little more time to cherish what it felt like to be loved so deeply. A little more time to brand it into her memory.

No. Determinedly, she shook her head, forcing herself back to the present. She couldn't do that to either of them. It wasn't fair to drag this out any longer. He deserved to know what had happened to her. No matter how hard she tried, the overwhelming sense of abhorrent filth clung to her, soaking into her skin. It was part of her now. Sharp tears assaulted her eyes, magnifying the lump lodged in her throat, chocking her.

"Are you ok?" Her eyes snapped up in alarm to find Boris' gray orbs fixed intensely on her. "You're deathly pale." Shaking her head, Marisa attempted to form a cohesive thought, unable.

"No- I- It's nothing. I just need to sleep."

Shoving herself to her feet, vertigo overran her senses as blackness ate at the edges of her vision. Instinctively, he reached out to wrap his arms around her as he watched the strength flee her body. Pulling her closer, he simply held her for a moment that seemed as if it were years. Trepidation met her when light seeped past her eyelids again. Despite herself, she allowed her head to drop to his shoulder, exhaustion on the edge of victory. She hadn't truly slept for weeks… He reached up to run his fingers through her locks, at a loss for anything more to do. At that moment, he just needed to hold her.

"Is this what all the doctors' appointments were about?"

For a moment, she couldn't answer. Everything within her screamed for her to tell him. But she could only see the remembered hatred in his eyes. It deluged her mental vision, so incredibly at odds with the powerful love and concern she witnessed in his gaze now. It would be nothing in contrast with the response she knew her entire confession would garner. Desperately, she forced herself to put space between their bodies, all but yanking her head from his touch and stepping back.

"Hank can look you over in the morning, make sure-"

Harsh, impenetrable stone replaced liquescent brown. "I just need to sleep," she ground out the words forcefully.

"This is far beyond exhaustion!"

"Boris-!"

"You've been avoiding me all week. I haven't seen you eat anything in just as long, maybe longer. You're exhausted and yet you can never seem to sleep at night-"

"Thank you for telling me what I already know." Nails dug painfully into her palms in an effort to control her temper, voice tight. "I'm already perfectly well aware of that. I do not need a baby-sitter." Nightmares deluged her whenever she dared close her eyes. The memories of wretched men playing her captors, of the carnal desire sketched shamelessly on their faces. The self-assured smirk from the knowledge they would never be reprimanded…

"I'm worried about you, Marisa. You get this far-off look in your eyes like you're dead and it's scaring me."

He never admitted to fear. It was a trait they both shared, for better or worse.

Opening his mouth as if to say something, he closed it just as quickly and cast his gaze out into the darkness for a moment.

"I can't read your mind," she prompted tersely, glaring sharply at his head. "If there's something you need to tell me…" Marisa let the prompt hang suspended in the air between them.

For a moment, she thought if one of them lit a match, the flames would consume them in an instant. His jaw tightened, the slim hold on his temper disintegrating.

"How can you have the nerve to-? Something -I- want to tell you? You can't possibly be serious!"

Sparks of anger borne on a myriad of passions leapt between them, threatening to strike an inferno. Obdurate, both fiercely held their ground, until he gradually stepped backward. Pointedly, he snatched a translucent orange bottle from a table and held it aloft before her. No label. The original with the prescription lay stashed in her desk drawer at the hospital, where he'd never encounter it.

"I found these." Insistent concern seeped past the frustrated anger in his gaze, banishing the coldness. Though the anger remained underneath. "Is there anything you want to tell me? Is there something I should know?"

He'd struck the match.

"I'm not some damsel in distress who needs saving, Boris!"

"I love you and would greatly prefer you not be tortured to death in prison, so I have a hero complex? Marisa, I just-" Jaw clenched, he cast his gaze to heaven in a plea to make her understand. "I want to protect you. I can't stand seeing you like this. Knowing something's wrong and there's nothing I can do to help you."

"¡Ay, Dios mio! Jesús, ¿por qué?"

Letting her eyes fall closed, Marisa took a deep breath to keep him from seeing the tears escaping from under her eyelids. She despised herself for shedding tears over this man who had become part of her in every way imaginable. It was completely illogical, possibly even idiotic, but seeing her cry shattered his heart. In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen her cry. Crossing to her, he tenderly brushed the tears away. She tensed as she realized he was mere inches before her.

"Tell me what it is," he petitioned softly.

"Nothing," she insisted still. "It's none of your concern. Don't worry yourself over it."

"It's already too late for that." The edge slipped back into his voice slightly. "Something's wrong and I know it's serious. You wouldn't be avoiding me like this if it were really nothing. You wouldn't be crying."

"Darling, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded.

"No. You've done enough for me already. It's too much to ask of you." The overflowing emotion in her orbs sent the words slamming into each other in his throat.

"I won't let you go through this alone." The severe intensity burning in his eyes only served to compound her apprehension. "Marisa, what did I do to hurt you like this? You can trust me. I won't ever abandon you."

Marisa managed to slip into the hall before Boris caught up. Slipping his arms around her waist, he gently coaxed her to face him.

"I'm pregnant." The words came out in a near whisper laden with pain and sorrow. For an eternity, he stood suspended in shocked silence. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The look on his features…

"Marisa-" That was why she'd been sick…

"I expect nothing. You have no obligation to me." Joy shattered in an instant to wounded confusion. Pivoting on her heals, she made to leave. Reflexively, his hand shot out to snatch her wrist.

"Marisa." A command, not a request - sharp, angry.

Apprehensively, she complied, turning to face him again. Traces of self-doubt only served to magnify the naked hurt exposed in his gaze. The knowledge the love of his life didn't trust him with something so vital stung like betrayal. Gray irises narrowed dangerously.

"What do you mean I have no obligation to you?"

"It is none of your concern." She couldn't force herself to confess the second blow. Boris would hate her then, if he didn't already, and that might very well kill her.

"It's none of my concern that you're pregnant?"

An indecipherable expression passed over his features, sending ice shooting through her limbs. Before either could say another word, the shrill ringing of her cell cracked the explosive silence. Snatching the vile thing from her pocket, her eyes fell to the screen. Marisa recognized the number in an instant.

"It's Jill. I'm on call. I have to go."

"Tell her this is more important. You can't just-"

Boris watched her departing back as she slipped out the door, stomach churning with guilt and self-directed anger. He'd destroyed her life and then made her believe that he hated her for it.

You idiot bastard!

Sharp green numbers cut into the darkness: 0345. The distant tap of her heals on tile had betrayed Marisa's return almost an hour ago. Since then, she'd seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Banishing his pride, he surrendered to the persistent voice at the back of his conscience demanding he go find her. Desolate halls magnified every minute sound ten-fold.

Perplexed when he didn't find her in their room, Boris stood comatose for what seemed like hours, Marisa's words ricocheting through his mind. For the life of him, he couldn't recall the last time they'd stayed in the same house and not shared a bed. Regardless of how angry they might have been with each other, it had never driven either of them away like this before. Hours later, after searching every place that came to mind, he discovered her curled up on the couch in his mother's former study at the far end of the house. Case files lay strewn across the floor.

Icy foreboding assaulted him as he stepped through the threshold. The image of his unconscious lover lay eerily juxtaposed against the memory of his mother's lifeless body flung across the desk, rivers of blood cascading from the dagger she'd plunged into her own heart. Two days after his father drew his final breath. Witnessing Death gradually drag him six feet under the earth had driven any hope from her grasp ages ago - had eventually stolen her away with him. He swallowed hard.

There had been so much blood…

Boris never meant to harm Marisa. Didn't she understand he couldn't force the same fate on her? On their children? He desperately begged God that Marisa carried their daughter. There had been only males in his family for five generations. Perhaps she would not share his curse. Silently, he approached her sleeping form. Arms wrapped protectively around her middle, still-drying tears glistening on her cheeks in the moonlight. Crisp night air stung his lungs, still caught off guard. He'd never seen her cry before tonight; he couldn't help but wonder how often she had in the past month and he'd been oblivious to her pain. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, cautious not to wake her, and took her back to their room where she belonged.

Eyes hard as stone bored into her. His voice cut just as deep, through her heart.

"Do you even know whose it is? What else are you not telling me? "

"Boris, I'm- I'm sorry." She could hardly speak through her raw throat. "I never meant for this to happen."

Breath fled from her lungs at his harshness. She didn't hear what else he said. He might as well have just shot her. Tears burned her eyes, threatening to overflow. The unspoken insult screamed in his stare.

'Filthy whore.'