I frown. “Since when does beer bother you?” The woman drinks like a fish.
Placing the toothbrush on the counter, she turns to face me with a big smile. “I’m pregnant.”
I just stare at her.
She wraps her arms around my neck and goes to kiss my lips, but I pull away, not wanting to taste vomit. I remove her hands from my neck, and she frowns. “You’re not pregnant.”
“Ty.” She pops out a hip and places her hands on them. “Yes, I am.”
“You’re on birth control,” I remind her.
“It’s not a hundred percent effective.” She rolls her eyes.
“It’s like ninety-nine point nine percent.”
“Tyson—”
“We use condoms.” Other than the vow ceremony at the Cathedral, I use protection. But that’s why I prefer a mouth over a cunt, because I hate having to wrap it up.
“Well, maybe they’re defective.”
“Whitney,” I growl.
She steps into me again, and I take a step back. Her face tightens. “You knew this could happen.”
“I want a paternity test,” I say.
She gasps. “Are you calling me a slut?”
A chosen is given to her Lord and cannot sleep with anyone else, but as a Lord, I can hand her over to anyone I want. I have done no such thing. “You weren’t a virgin, Whit. Why do you think I picked you in the first place?”
She slaps me across the face, making my cheek sting. Then turns and exits the bathroom. I hear my bedroom door slam shut moments later.
We’ve talked about this. I like to fuck, but kids with Whitney? It’s not supposed to go that far. She’s my chosen, and that’s that. It ends after our senior year. I get in, get what the Lords want, and get the fuck out. We’re both already promised to someone else.
I didn’t abstain from sex for three years to fuck up my future by getting her pregnant. It would change everything, including my future and my position as a Lord. I’ve been smart about it. She dropped a few hints here and there that she wants kids, but I figured she meant later in life when she’s a Lady married to her Lord. Not me. Not now.
Walking out of the bathroom, I go to the top drawer of my nightstand. Yanking it open, I grab a handful of condoms and return to the bathroom. Ripping one open, I pull it out and hold it under the faucet as I turn it on. The condom starts to fill up, and I let out a long breath, but my relief is quickly replaced with anger when I watch a thin line of water fall out in multiple areas.
“MOTHERFUCKER!”
THIRTY-TWO
LAIKYN
The following morning, we woke up and headed right back to Blackout. We haven’t spoken. I cried myself to sleep before he ever came to bed, but he has nothing to say to me, and I no longer want to speak to him.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m embarrassed about how I reacted. I don’t want to have a baby. That wasn’t a lie, but being a mom? I’d love to have children in a different life. But I decided years ago that that wouldn’t be something I’d ever get to experience. I do thank Tyson for hijacking my wedding to Luke. Otherwise, he’d already have me knocked up.
When we returned to Blackout, he left and went to his office. I didn’t follow him. I also didn’t go visit him before my shift started. Consequences be damned. I’m hoping he’s too busy to remember.
After my shift, I went upstairs and crawled into bed. Again, he didn’t bother to wake me up for sex. At this point, I’m not sure if this is a blessing or a punishment.
I’m still lying in our bed, ready for another boring day in. Reaching over, I pick up my cell off the nightstand to see it’s a little after noon. My sleep schedule has been screwed ever since I started working at Blackout. I’m up all night and sleep most of the day away. Which is fine. What else am I going to do?
Sitting up, I see the light to the bathroom is on underneath the door. Listening, I hear the shower running. I lie back down and roll onto my side, closing my eyes. They spring open the moment I hear a cell ding, alerting that a text message has been received.
I sit up once again and see his cell lighting up on the long dresser. Throwing off he covers; I rush over to it just as the screen goes black. I press the button to light it up and see he has a text without opening it.
