I pull back and glare at him, flaying him with my eyes. “Iamtaking care of myself.”
“By throwing up alone and hiding it from me?”
“I’m not trying to hide from you. I’m just—” I pause, the words sticking in my throat. “I’m trying to keep us both sane.”
“I’m not sane when it comes to you and this baby. You’re my entire world, and I’d die if anything happens to you.” Oh. Damn. How the hell do I stay angry when he says shit like that? His fingers thread through my hair and I melt into him without meaning to. I’m a weak bitch. “I’ll tell Theo and Mike you don’t need them today.”
Whiplash—that’s what he giving me. Because I’m no longer soft. I’m pissed again. “I don’t need to stay home. I need to be at the gallery.”
His brows arch. “You just threw up like you were dying.”
He’s not wrong, but I’m still not sitting at home like my only task is to push out his heirs. “And I’m already feeling better.”
The tiny slither of control he gives me is being crushed under his boots. My gallery, my work—that’s always been mine. He’s not taking that from me.
Jensen’s jaw clenches. “Mia.”
“No,” I hiss, poking his chest. “You can be overbearing about my schedule, my safety, but not this, Jensen. I love my job and I want to do it for as long as I can through this pregnancy. I’m not going to keep having this argument every time I get sick. It’s exhausting.” I kiss his jaw, hoping to settle him. “I love you,” another kiss, “but stop driving me crazy.” I step back. “I need to get ready to leave, and you’re already late.”
He is, but he doesn’t move right away. His eyes are dark and starving, so fucking gone for me that my heart stutters. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs.
Then he pulls me in for another desperate kiss. His mouth is hot and commanding as he claims me with a need carved from obsession. It’s like he’s trying to take back the last five minutes of arguing, like he thinks if he kisses me hard enough, I’ll forget why I was mad.
And it works.
My toes curl into the carpet, my fingers twisting into his shirt until he finally pulls back. There’s a hit of insanity in his eyes before he locks it back down.
“I love you so fucking much I don’t know what to do with it,” he murmurs.
“I know. I love you too.”
“You call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I promise.
I only let out a breath when he leaves the bedroom, and I’m alone. I run a hand over my stomach where our baby is growing, oblivious to the chaos they’re causing.
“Little nugget, you’re going to need to behave better than this if we’re going to get through the next few months without your daddy chaining us in the house.”
ELEVEN
MIA
I getthrough the next week in a daze. Between the nausea, exhaustion, and Jensen’s constant hovering and safety protocols, I’m losing my mind. Just this morning, he tried to increase my security for an exhibition I’m planning. I already have Theo and Mike. I draw the line at Luca and whoever else he can rope in.
I’m not just overwhelmed anymore. I’m angry.
My body isn’t mine. My time isn’t mine. And I can’t blink without someone breathing down my neck. This morning, even the lights in the gallery are so bright they feel like an interrogation.
I’m slumped at my desk, ignoring Mike—who’s watching me like I might detonate. Theo’s in his usual spot at the security desk, blending into the walls like a moody gargoyle. Every now and again, he glances over at me, wincing in sympathy.
Because, yeah—I look like shit.
I feel even worse.
My head’s floaty, my limbs are heavy, and every time I stand up, my stomach stages a violent protest.
Inhale. Exhale. Rinse and repeat until it passes…. or I puke. It’s a dice roll.
