"No one thinks that."
He snorts. "It's no one's fault except for all the people fucking pressuring us." He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm a fucking psychopath, but even I don't think we should just be bringing kids into this fucked up shit."
His venom catches me off guard.
"You don't want a baby?" I hate how small my voice sounds.
"Do you?" he asks, brow quirked.
Do I want a baby—not sure. Do I want Saint to want me to have his baby—yes. I'm fucked up in the head.
Four months ago, I would have said absolutely not. A baby meant being trapped forever. But now, with this partnership we've built, with the way he looks at me sometimes like I'm more than just a means to an end...the idea doesn't feel like a prison anymore.
It feels like a possibility.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
"Why were you so pissed last time I got my period?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and I'm about to say fuck it and go back inside. "Antonio is dying."
The words hit me like a slap. "What?"
"He told me months ago. Cancer. He's holding on better than we expected, but he's not doing treatments, and honestly, he's a stubborn bastard. The moment he starts to deteriorate he's going to eat his gun." He shrugs. "Can't really blame him on that one."
He speaks so matter-of-factly that my mouth drops open in shock. My mother and I had a volatile relationship at the end, but I still felt something when she passed.
Saint seems to be resigned.
"That's why he's so desperate for an heir. He wants to know the family will continue before he goes."
"You've known about this for months, and you haven't told me?"
I think about every time I've seen Antonio lately. He's looked the same as ever. Frailer, sure. But he's an old man.
"He wants to keep it under wraps until necessary," Saint runs a hand through his hair.
"I'm your wife," I remind him, since clearly, he needs the reminder. "Family."
"And I was worried I'd add more pressure to the mix," he says. "I read that stress isn't good for conception."
I honestly don't know what to say.
"What happens if I don't get pregnant before Antonio...dies?"
Saint pulls back, makes me look at him. "You will."
"You can't know that." Cancer is unpredictable, and Antonio could turn on a dime.
"I know that we're going to keep trying," he smirks. It's the smile he gives me when I've done something he likes. "Practice makes perfect."
Despite everything, the stress, the pressure, the fear, I almost laugh. Leave it to Saint to turn a fertility conversation into innuendo.
It's not exactly comforting. But coming from Saint, it's close.
"I feel like I'm going crazy," I admit. "Seeing her pregnant. Knowing I'm still not. Knowing I'm disappointing everyone," I take a deep breath. "It's fucking with my head."
"You're not disappointing me."
