My stomach clenches a bit from worry, but I lift my chin because I won’t accept anything but that he’s high, fine, and hiding away from his feelings.
It’s better than here.
And while I don’t have to face Levi’s death anymore, my sisters still do. I still have an ex who’s running around like he’s about to do something, and the last thing I need is Ozzy to become a hostage or the next one to be targeted.
He already got shot saving me because he’swithme. Regardless of how you want to look at it, Ozzy is linked and legally married to my ass.
I can’t say Matteo would be a fan of that for too much longer.
“Bay…”
Ozzy’s voice filters through my impending thoughts, and I rest my palms along the edge of the countertop, thinking of tomorrow, what I’m going to feed the girls, and how hard it is for them to have to go back to school with the loss of Levi.
I don’t acknowledge him right away, steeling myself for whatever he wants to say before turning around and facing him again.
He’s within feet, already crept up on me, and stands there, appearing defeated and torn.
I’m keeping him away from what he wants to do and what, I’m told, he’s good at. Obviously, he is, because I didn’t know he existed until he came out of the shadows and revealed himself of his own free will. I might be his wife, but I’m not his keeper, nor am I his boss.
“Yeah?” I emit through his silence, giving him his opportunity to speak, and that I acknowledge him.
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not. I just want yousafe.”
He stares at me as if not comprehending what that would mean or maybe why I would care.
I do.
A lot.
If I have to deal with one more assassination attempt, I’m going to throw myself down a full flight of stairs.
Can’t.
You’re pregnant.
My nostrils flare at the reminder and the complicated fact the man in front of me—my fucking husband—doesn’t know yet.
You’re so fucked up, it’s stupid.
Ozzy’s eyebrows clip together a bit, alluding to the fact he’s noticed and will want an explanation. But he doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry. He allows me to either keep it from him or flat-out say something.
An accommodation I’m not used to because the men around me would nag me to death to get those answers.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words leave my lips on a strangled exhale. Dread immediately courses through my veins because this wasn’t what he expected. It’s not what he signed up for.
Truthfully, I’m going to bet he’s going to want out of this shitty marriage ASAP after this. I’m nothing but a problem, a wreck of a girl who can’t get shit together. I’m failing in every aspect of my life, and I’ve screwed up more relationships in the course of a week than I have my entire life.
I told them to stay away from me and that I was no good.
I warned them.
Yet it doesn’t make me feel less shitty about it.
Ozzy continues to gape at me, but it’s empty. Nothing in his features gives away what he’s thinking, and it begins to creep up my skin like a mosquito bite. It itches, the need for him to say something, anything. It gnaws at me because I’m another issue this man didn’t sign up for.
