“She’s going to have my babies someday. What do you fucking think?” I bark over my shoulder just as I reach the door, prompting the crowd of ugly birds to gasp and then spout off a whole new list of questions about our relationship.
She's going to be livid with that comment, but I’m finding it hard to give a fuck at the moment.
I don’t even know if she wants children, but if so, she’s sure as fuck not having anyone else’s baby, that's for goddamn sure. If not, that's great, too. I don't want Reverie for whatherbody can doforme. I want her for whatIcan do toherbody.
I swing open the door, uncaring if I smack one of them in the face, and don't bother looking back as I snap, “And her fucking name is Reverie.”
I let it slam behind me before any of them can respond.
I’ve forgotten how much I hate them. They’re different from the sports journalists only interested in my career. These kinds are far more ruthless and have no issue prying into my trauma just to make a news headline.
I barge into my room, Reverie startling on my bed, where she lies on her stomach with her legs kicked up behind her.
My fuck, she's wearing tiny little shorts that ride up just enough to show the round apples of her cheeks.
Gasping, she swings her wide eyes my way, her pencil frozen above her homework. My fist is already in my mouth, biting on my finger while I physically restrain myself from sinking my teeth into the soft flesh of her plump ass.
God, I've already done so many things to her, but there's so much more I want to do.
My blood is on fire by the time I drag my stare back up to hers.
She finally trimmed her bangs, the wispy strands stopping just past her eyebrows, allowing me to see her features a little clearer than before.
I take in her copper eyes, long brown lashes, the light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks, the dainty gold hoops in her button nose and septum, and those full, pink lips I’m so goddamn obsessed with kissing.
Fucking hell, she’s breathtaking.
How one of the most vile, ugliest creatures helped create the most beautiful will always be a fucking mystery.
Her shoulders sag when she sees me, and with a grumbled complaint about scaring her, she turns back to her homework.
She doesn’t look happy to see me, and that really fucking irks me.
I’mhappy to seeher.
It’s Monday afternoon, and in the couple of days I’ve been home, she’s been incredibly fucking distant. It's a complete one-eighty from Saturday night, when I helped her learn to swim and then made arealsex tape with her.
The second we finished, she shut down. I thought maybe she was just processing, but all of yesterday and today, she’s been avoidant, allthe while playing dumb and acting like she hasn't. No matter what I say or do, she’s cagey, abnormally quiet, and subdued, even when I’m clearly pissing her off. The only time I recognize her is when I’m inside her, but the second I pull out, she’s locked down again. Considering I just told her I’m falling for her, it’sreallygetting beneath my skin.
Not to mention she confessed yesterday she found a chunk of blonde hair and photos inside her backpack, which sent me into a rage. She also confessed Barry had already come to collect the hair, but she didn’t tell him about the pictures yet.
She showed me the one taken of her and Lionel but refused to show me the crime scene photo of Margaret. Truthfully, it wasn't something I was sure I could handle, knowing it’d be a similar sight to what my mother looked like in the junkyard.
She also told me about the significance of Margaret, how she connected the dots to the chunk of black hair and newspaper clipping that was in her dorm room after being trashed. It made me fucking sick, watching Lionel or the copycat fuck with her like this and being unable to do a goddamn thing to stop it.
“I told the media you’re going to have my babies,” I announce tonelessly.
Her gaze flicks up to me for a half second before returning to her paper, dismissing me without a single eye twitch or snarl.
“Shocker.”
That’s it. No outrage. No insults. Not even an eye roll.
My eyes narrow, and I grind my molars as my irritation heightens. In all our years together, she’s nevernotgiven me a reaction in some capacity. Andfuck, I’ve reached my limit with her. The urge to do something—anything—to get a reaction out of her arises with the force of a freight train.
Silently, I toe off my shoes and shrug off my coat before tossing it over the back of my chair.
She ignores me, though I see tension gathering in her muscles. Those pretty little penny eyes may not be on me, but her mind sure as fuck is. There isn’t a single inch of her that isn’t as aware of me as I am of her. It’s why even when she’s acting like this, she melts the second I press my lips against hers.
