He watched me through dinner.
Not obviously. Judah was never obvious about the things that mattered. He ate and asked about the food bank intake numbers and mentioned that the diocese had requested a revised budget proposal, all of it normal, all of it the texture of an ordinary evening in an ordinary house.
But he watched me.
I could feel it. Every time I looked up, he was looking at his plate or the window or his glass. Every time I looked away, I felt his eyes come back. Or I could’ve just been paranoid — which wouldn’t have been that far-fetched.
But I had a feeling Judah knew something had shifted.
He didn't know what. God, Ihopedhe didn’t knowwhat.
I kept my face exactly where I'd put it on the drive home and talked about the budget proposal and didn't touch the wine he'd poured, which I realized too late was itself a tell. I reached for the glass. Brought it to my lips. Set it down without drinking, which was worse.
His eyes came up.
I reached for my water instead.
“You're quiet,” he said.
“Tired.” I met his gaze. “The drive.”
He looked at me too long.
“Early night, then,” he said.
He came to bed at eleven.
I was on my side, facing the window, not asleep. He knew I wasn't asleep — my breathing was wrong, too controlled. He'd know that by now. He knew everything about me by now.
The bed shifted with his weight.
His hand found my hip.
“Judah—”
“Turn over.”
I did.
I met his eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. They were pale and unreadable, focused entirely on my face as though searching for something. His hand moved from my hip to my stomach, fingers splaying possessively across the flat plane where something impossible was happening. I wondered if heknew, if he could somehow feel the change in me before I'd found the words to tell him.
His thumb traced a small circle there, a small circle here. And then, without warning, he moved over me, pressing me into the mattress, one hand beside my head, the other still on my belly.
His mouth came down on mine, hard, demanding in a way it hadn't been before. No gentle beginning, no sweet words whispered against my skin. Just teeth and tongue and a force that pushed me deeper into the mattress.
“Judah, wait—”
He didn't. His hand gripped my wrist, pinning it above my head. The other moved from my stomach to my thigh, fingers digging in with a possessive pressure that would leave marks. His weight settled fully against me, heavier than usual.
I turned my face away, caught my breath. “Maybe we shouldn't—”
“Shouldn't what?” His voice was low, controlled, but with an edge I'd never heard before. He bit down on my neck, and I gasped. “You don't want me tonight, Mercy?”
His hips ground against mine, insistent. I felt the heat building in my core even as another part of me recoiled. My father's voice, unbidden:Protect the innocent. The unborn are sacred vessels.
Shut thefuckup!
“It's not that,” I whispered, my hand pressing against his chest, not quite pushing him away. “I just don't feel well,” I finished lamely, the lie tasting sour in my mouth.
