* * *
Damien checked into his room at the Four Seasons and tended to his obligations—namely, going over his handwritten note to Gwynn one last time and texting Matthew his room number. It felt like a sleazy thing to do after turning down Gwynn’s invitation to hit the town, but Damien would be seeing them at the wedding and the reception. The time he had to spend with Matthew was precious, especially with Matthew’s health in the balance, and he intended to protect it fiercely.
After sending Matthew his room number, Damien made himself at home. First, and most importantly, he plugged his phone charger into the wall outlet and set his phone to charge. Once it was plugged in, he connected to the Wi-Fi and accessed his music app. What would Matthew want to listen to while Damien broke the news that Daddy wasn’t going to let his boy suffer any longer? Damien scrolled through his playlists in search of the answer, but came up short. He settled on classical piano, figuring it’d make him look sophisticated at best and adorably outdated at worst, then went to dump his toiletries by the bathroom sink. Two travel toothbrushes—one new, intended for use by Matthew—check. A tube of toothpaste, check. Floss, check. Mouthwash, check. Lube… Damien poked his head out of the bathroom and tossed the bottle onto the bed. If Matthew was feeling better and had the a-okay from the doctor, it wouldn’t be the only thing that’d make the mattress bounce today.
As Damien placed his body wash on the edge of the tub, there came a knock at the door. That’d been quick. Damien abandoned his quest to help his potentially sex-drunk self get clean without hassle and went to open it. To no one’s surprise, Matthew was on the other side.
With a charming smile and a subtle lift of his brow, Damien was about to deliver the pickup line of the century when he noticed that even though the door had opened, Matthew wouldn’t look at him. He kept his chin pressed to his shoulder and his arms crossed over his chest, like he was afraid that if he didn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart.
“Matthew?” The humor bled from Damien’s spirit and left his voice uncertain. “What’s wrong?”
Matthew squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “I’m pregnant.”
24
Matthew
Fear was many things. For some, it was sweaty palms, a racing heart, and the vague recollection of a nightmare as it receded into the darkness of the subconscious mind. For others, fear was a governing force, influencing all aspects of life. For Matthew, it was admitting to the man he so desperately wanted that he’d fucked up, and he’d fucked up hard.
It was knowing that Damien hadn’t asked for this, and that there was a chance this would end them.
“I’m pregnant,” Matthew whispered a second time when Damien said nothing. There was a look in his eyes—regret, trepidation, or pity, Matthew couldn’t tell which—that lingered for a prolonged moment, then vanished, masked by resilience.
The longer the silence stretched between them, the more Matthew felt the need to fill it. Terrified of the conversation to come, Matthew started to babble. If he didn’t let Damien speak, then he could never tell Matthew how disappointed and upset he was. “It was an accident, I swear. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did, and I know it’s all on me, so I’m gonna take care of it, and you won’t have to worry—”
A sudden movement caught Matthew’s eye and made him stop. Expecting pain, he flinched, but there was no crunch of knuckles as they slammed into his face and no shocking sting of an open palm across his cheek. Damien grabbed him by the shoulder firmly, but not unkindly, and yanked him off balance. With a squeak of surprise, Matthew opened his eyes and prepared to brace himself in the doorway, but it was too late. He hit something solid instead.
This time, the something solid didn’t make a sound—it wrapped its arms around Matthew and held him tight.
“Don’t say that.” Damien’s voice caressed the ridge of Matthew’s ear, a promise that everything would be all right. “Never say that. This isn’t all on you.”
It had been two days since Matthew had learned that he was pregnant, and in that time, he’d been beside himself with feelings of guilt. Those feelings crashed into him now harder than they had before, slamming the inside of his ribcage, then rebounding inward for the kill. While they didn’t succeed in breaking his heart, they shattered what little remained of his composure.
Broken, Matthew started to sob.
“H-How can you say that?” Matthew managed through his tears. “You asked. W-We had a whole c-conversation about it. I told you I was on the p-pill and that it was safe, and n-now here I am, pre—” Matthew’s voice broke. He buried his head against Damien’s chest and gripped his shirt, holding himself close. Damien didn’t try to pry him away, nor did he argue. He simply kissed the top of Matthew’s head.
“You made a mistake.” Damien stated it like it was a fact instead of a flaw. “I made one, too. It was as much my responsibility to use a condom as it was yours to take your pills, but I didn’t, did I?”
“N-No.”
“If I didn’t want you pregnant, then I shouldn’t have come inside you.”
“I told you to,” Matthew managed in a thin voice. His fingers tightened in Damien’s shirt, pulling it too tight. “I told you to knot me. You did it because I asked.”
“I did it because I wanted to.” One by one, Damien unlatched Matthew’s fingers from his shirt, then wove their fingers together so they were palm to palm. “Come inside, sweet boy. I know you’re scared. It’s okay. I’m here now, and I’m going to make everything better.”
Damien led Matthew to the bed. The door shut behind them, gently clicking into place. Dulcet notes occupied the silence—a piano melody from somewhere unseen. Matthew blinked the tears out of his eyes and sucked in a shuddering breath. Before he’d arrived and dropped the bomb, Damien had been anticipating that their reunion would be sweet and heartfelt. The same guilt that had tried to destroy him from the inside crashed into Matthew again. Not only had he hurt himself and Emily by being irresponsible, but he’d hurt Damien, too.
When they arrived at the bedside, Damien let go of Matthew’s hand and pushed him into a seated position on the bed. Once Matthew was settled, Damien ran his hand affectionately through his hair, then trailed his fingers along the ridge of his jaw until Matthew lifted his gaze. They looked each other in the eyes.
“This isn’t your fault,” Damien said. Matthew opened his mouth to argue, but before he could make a sound, Damien bent down and captured his lips in a silencing kiss that curled Matthew’s toes. It was equal parts sweet and wild, reminiscent of their night in Fiji, but evocative of something greater and more substantial. In it, Damien claimed ownership not just of him, but of his triumphs, his downfalls, and his mistakes. It was a promise that if Matthew let go, Damien would be there to catch him as he fell.
“This isn’t your fault,” Damien repeated when the kiss ended. Breathless and scared, all Matthew could do was listen. “You did the right thing. You came to me. I’m going to take care of you.”
“I don’t understand.” Matthew’s voice cracked. He winced and cleared his throat, but it did little to help. “I made a mistake. You should be angry.”
“This isn’t your fault.” Was Damien saying that for his own benefit, or did he mean it? The look in his eyes when Matthew had told him the news suggested one thing, but the way he spoke now suggested another. He brushed his thumb over Matthew’s lips, and Matthew, enslaved by how wonderful it felt when Damien touched him, nuzzled his cheek into Damien’s palm. “I don’t care how many times I have to say it. I chose to be unsafe with you knowing the risks. What happened is my fault. All you did was make me happy, baby boy. You were so good to me. How can I be angry at you for that?”
