ARIA

"We need to go to the hospital," Dante says the next morning, his hand still possessively splayed across my stomach.

"We need to get you checked out properly. Make sure everything's okay."

"I'm fine," I protest, but even as I say it, a wave of nausea hits me. I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm retching into the toilet.

Dante's there immediately, holding my hair back, while his other hand rubs soothing circles on my back.

"Hospital," he says firmly when I'm done. ...