His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.
***
Two weeks pass.
Two weeks of me trying to convince myself nothing changed. Two weeks of tension thick enough to choke on. Two weeks of ignoring how my body aches with something new, something slow and deep and wrong.
Then the nausea hits out of nowhere: sharp, sudden, rolling through me until I have to grip the sink with both hands.
I breathe through it, waiting for it to pass. It doesn’t.
A different kind of fear slides cold through my veins.
I sit down slowly. My hands won’t stop shaking.
My chest tightens. Reality shifts under my feet like the beginning of an earthquake.
I whisper into the empty room—just two small, broken words that crack the air: “Oh God.”
I think I might be pregnant.
Chapter Sixteen - Simon
The doctor’s words hang in the air, carving the world into before and after.
“You’re pregnant.”
That’s it—three syllables, barely more than a breath. But the instant they leave his mouth, something hardens inside me. I go from ice to iron. Every muscle tenses, my mind cutting through the haze of shock with surgical clarity. There’s a pulse at my temple, steady as a ticking bomb.
Eden sits beside me on the exam table, shoulders rigid, gaze fixed on the floor. Her hand trembles in her lap. The doctor glances at me, then back at her, measuring his words. I don’t like the way his eyes linger. I don’t like the way he leans in—professional, clinical, but close enough to touch her.
He says something about weeks, about scheduling, about next steps. It’s all white noise. I tune out everything but the possibility of threat. The doctor’s hand moves to check Eden’s pulse, just two fingers against her wrist, but it sets my teeth on edge. My body reacts before my brain can catch up—shifting closer, standing taller, blocking his path without a word.
She’s not just mine now. She’s carrying my child. My legacy. My future written in blood and bone.
It’s a primal, violent instinct, one I’ve learned to leash my entire life. Now it surges to the surface, raw and immediate. I want to drag her away from everyone in this sterile, too-bright office. I want to put her somewhere safe, somewhere no one can reach.
The doctor’s voice drifts back in. “Congratulations,” he says, too cheerful, too familiar.
I glare. He gets the message, clearing his throat and shuffling the paperwork. My hand finds the small of Eden’s back, steadying her as she slips off the table. She’s pale, shock-dazed, and her steps are unsteady. I guide her out, one palm braced between her shoulder blades, close enough to catch her if she stumbles.
Every person we pass in the hall—nurses, patients, even the old man shuffling past the elevator—feels like a risk. I size them up, measure their threat, calculate a dozen ways to get her out if something goes wrong.
No one gets too close.
In the car, she’s silent. Her fingers trace circles over her stomach, half conscious. She keeps her eyes on the city outside, but I catch every little movement. The deep inhale when the traffic swells. The way her hand drifts over her belly and lingers there, like she’s not sure if she wants to touch or shield it.
I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other close to her thigh. The city is nothing but noise, a blur of horns and headlights. Every block feels hostile. I catch myself mapping exits, scoping for shadows, scanning faces on the sidewalk for a hint of recognition.
When we get home, I walk her upstairs, too aware of the men stationed at the end of the hall. One of them—new, young, a little too eager—lets his gaze linger as we pass. It’s not lascivious, not exactly. Maybe just curiosity. Maybe he’s never seen me bring someone home like this, a woman with my mark on her. It doesn’t matter. The urge to snap his neck flickers through me before I force it down.
Mine.
It echoes in my skull, a drumbeat that won’t quit.
Inside the apartment, the air is thick with silence. Eden sets her purse down, fingers fumbling with the clasp. She sways a little where she stands, as if her body hasn’t caught up to the reality yet.
I take her by the shoulders—gentle, but firm enough to remind her she’s not alone. “Sit,” I say, and she does, dropping onto the couch with a barely suppressed shiver. Her knuckles are white. She’s terrified. Not of me, not really. Of the unknown swelling inside her, of the world that just got smaller and more dangerous all at once.
