‘Fuck, no.’
‘But why? Why would you do any of this?’
‘Because it’s the one thing you’ve made clear; you didn’t want people to know about me. About our marriage.’ His gaze clearly says what his words don’t. That I hid him from the people I love.
‘I’ll do what I have to do to protect you. To protect you both now.’
‘I’m sorry I hurt you,’ I answer quietly. ‘But I needed to tell my family first.’ The words seem so pathetic, so juvenile, and like the same old excuse.
‘And this?’ He places one hand on the swell of my stomach again. ‘What are you going to tell them about this?’
Time trickles by as he waits for my answer; an answer I have but am hesitant to give. What if he doesn’t want to be part of this? He doesn’t speak further, and he doesn’t move, but he watches me, his gaze guarded. His feelings unclear.
‘The truth,’ I eventually answer, silently willing the baby to move—to give Dylan some sign of his presence.Manipulative or what?‘If you want me to, that is.’
‘Is this you giving me an out?’ From one hand to two, he covers the bump named Vlad.
‘If that’s what you want.’ I affect a small shrug, every nerve ending coming alive as his hands slide to my hips. I daren’t look up for fear of what I’ll see on his face, or for what he’ll see on mine. I’m so afraid—afraid of his answer. Of rejection.
Thump... thump... thump. Time seems to slow to the rhythm of my heart; each of my nerve endings electric—alive—as his hands lift from my hips and drift upto cradle my face. My eyes fall closed as I sense his tall frame leaning toward me, his soft breath reaching my skin a moment before his lips brush my head.
‘I want it. I want it all.’
My throat closes as I slide my hands around his waist. I hug him hard. Tight. I clasp him to me like he’s the anchor to my life.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dylan
It was lateby the time we arrived at the hospital in Edinburgh. Travelling and time zones have caught up with me, but powered by espresso these past few hours, I still managed to drive. Carefully. Tired or not, I find I just want to be near Ivy. Want to lighten her load however I can.
I stayed in the waiting room while Ivy and her friends took turns sitting with Natasha in the room assigned to her grandmother. It seems June suffered a severe stroke and, at one point, went into respiratory arrest. From what I can gather, the medical staff has been reluctant to offer any assurances except to say that she’s stable for now.
Ivy has a good bunch of friends, and they’re obviously very supportive of each other. Protective, too. I spoke more with Rory in the waiting room, and he’d helped me ward off the nursing staff when I’d been recognised. Ball cap pulled low, I’d used the thick heavy accent again, and he’d appropriately set off laughing at the ridiculousness of being asked for my autograph. An arm slung around the junior nurse’s shoulder, he’d told her I was a computer repairman from Turkmenistan.Good job she wasn’t overly bright.He’s a pretty solid guy, and while his brother may be his double, I’ve found it hard to warm to him. Something’s just a little too perfect to be true about him. He’s too calm. Too reserved. And emotionless doesn’t equal a lack of passion, as far as I’m concerned, but hidden feelings. Emotion simmering beneath the surface. My concern is those feelings might be for Ivy.
For all our sakes, I hope that’s not the case.
Ivy’s asleep by the time I pull the rental to a stop outside her salon. Despite protesting she was fine to stay, her pals insisted she go home and rest. I didn’t need to say anything—didn’t need to interject—but was still the recipient of her resentment in the car on the way home. She obviously hates having the pregnancy card pulled and wasn’t at all fooled when house keys were folded into her hand in the waiting room.Get Nat some clothes and stuff. Bring them back tomorrow.
Yeah, she wasn’t a bit impressed.
So I got the silent treatment, but I didn’t mind. It’s better than fighting, and it led to her falling asleep. She obviously needed it because it was like someone took her batteries out; she just went out like a light. In the resulting silence, I got to watch her fleetingly and listen to the evenness of her light breaths while I drove. And now, turned fully toward her and sat in the darkened interior, I get to study how she has her hands folded in protection around her stomach.Around our child.I get to watch her without causing her heartache or concern. Without making her wonder about the meaning behind my gaze.
Angry, happy, sad—she’s always beautiful, but in sleep, something breathtaking about her.
Because she isn’t trying to be, she just is.
Her heart-shaped face relaxed and her cupid’s bow mouth slightly open, the dark half-moon of her lashes flutter as she dreams.
And my thoughts are... complex. I want her. I think I’ll always want her but wanting and having aren’t the same.Aren’t always sane. And now, we have another person to consider. Or at least, we will have soon. This morning—yesterday morning?—in the whole entire world, I only had myself to think of.And Ivy, though I tried not to, even if my attempts were as successful as turning back the tide.
So I sit, and I watch... like a creep because it isn’t long before my thoughts turn to the body concealed by her clothes. Dainty feet in blue tennis shoes, creamy legs beneath yoga pants, and under her t-shirt and fleece? Tits shaped like teardrops; tits so perfectly formed, so full and so perfect, they’d incite the gods themselves to tears.
It’s so fucking hard to sit here and not act on impulse—to refrain from touch—because her scent in these close confines is almost overwhelming.
Orange blossom perfume and nostalgia.
I want so badly to reach out and smooth the unruly wisps of hair from her cheek. Reach out and touch the roundness of her. Touch the place that holds our child, skin to skin.
