I stared at the ceiling and placed a hand over my belly.
My womb never stood a chance.
The man was unstoppable.
I shuffled up the bed, taking my sweater with me before I reached for my iPad. Another purchase from one of his cards, but I needed entertainment while positioned for conception.
I forced myself not to go there and played the true crime podcast on my playlist.
The title was intriguing.
Before women could choose divorce, they chose poison.
??????
The door opened. I didn’t look up.
It closed.
He cleared his throat.
I glanced up to see him holding bottles of drinks, fruit, and a packet of chipsy hanging from his mouth.
How long was he planning on keeping me holed up in my room?
I looked back at the grainy image of Madame Popova on the screen, knowing—with complete certainty—that I would have been one of her customers.
“Did you know that when there was no legal or religious recourse for divorce, women used to poison their husbands?” I asked, keeping my voice entirely innocent.
His scowl was immediate. He piled everything onto the nightstand without a word.
“Quick, effective and satisfying, I’d imagine,” I continued.
His brow furrowed deeper.
“Is that a threat?” he growled, snatching the iPad from my hands.
Rude.
“I don’t know,” I said lightly.“Do you have rat poison in the house?”
He blinked at me for a moment. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and stood there tapping at the screen before setting it beside the snacks.
“If there was, there won’t be by the end of the day,” he said, his voice cold and calm.
I smiled at him.
Poor man.
That was only one of the potential substances. And only one delivery method. And he’d have to remove rather a lot of things from this house before he could consider himself safe.
“Is that a hint of paranoia?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“People have been trying to kill me since I was six years old,” he scoffed.
My jaw dropped.
Well. That would do it.
