Ryan cries herself to sleep in my arms, tears she must’ve kept inside for years.
And my heart aches for her and longs for her. Fuck her admission, because nothing will change the way I feel.
She’s not a killer. She’s just a human put in a shitty situation. A child traumatized. An adult scarred. Mothering is meant to protect you from harm. But in her life, it was the cause.
I love her, but she says she’s still leaving.
I love her even when she promises to hand over our child.
She says my love will be enough. That she can’t trust herself, that I should feel the same.
She says she’s a monster, but in the grand scheme of the evils in this world, she’s no murderer. She’s also beyond listening, though what am I supposed to do, to say? I’m not sure it’ll help, admitting that I don’t see her actions quite the same way. Or that I don’t give a fuck what she’s done. If she’s a monster, then she’s my monster.
“Because you are mine,” I whisper, curling her hair around her tiny shell-like ear. “You’re mine and I’m yours, and you’d better get used to it, for better or worse. And yes, I said what I said, teacup.”
I’m pressing a kiss to her head when she almost breaks my nose with her head as she comes awake with a surge, her hands clutching her belly and her face a rictus of pain.
“Oh. The baby—I think she’s coming.”
And I think she might be right, according to the damp warmth spreading across my lap.
Chapter 42
Matt
“Get out of the fucking way!” I lean on the horn as I try to squeeze the Range Rover through a space more suited to aMini.
“Wanker!” A courier whips his bicycle around the front of us, accompanying the insult with the matching universal hand signal. And I don’t mean the signal for turning left.
“We’re having a baby here!” I yell, hanging my head out the window.
Shit. I’ve become one ofthosepeople. The soft-arseWe’re pregnant!idiots. I’m not having a baby; Ryan is. Soon, judging by the noises she keeps making.
“Please stop shouting,” she says.
I pull my head back inside, immediately regretful. Shit scared and panicking. And very glad I’m not suffering through this, as another contraction hits and she makes that unearthly sound again.Part alien, part ancient plea.I’ve heard men say they wish they could’ve shared their partner’s labor pains, but I call bullshit because it looks like some seriously heavy pain.
“I’m sorry, darlin’.” I reach out across the center console, taking her hand in mine.At least, when it looks safe to do so.“I’m sorry foryelling and for the stupid feckin’ rush hour traffic. But most of all, I’m sorry I can’t take away your pain.”
“You’re forgiven,” she says, her words barely a whisper, her forehead beaded with perspiration. “Tell me something?”
Why do her words sound so bittersweet?
“I love you. I can’t wait to meet our baby.”
“You’re gonna be such a good father. She’ll be so, so lucky.”
“She will. On both parental fronts, because you are amazing, my love.”
“Promise me you’ll choose her.”
“What?” Fear lances through me as a tear slides down her cheek. She doesn’t speak for a beat, her eyes closing as though in prayer.
“It’s too early,” she whispers. Her gaze doesn’t hold.
“I know,” I say, my eyes as wide as saucers as though full of reassurance. “But you heard what Dr. T. had to say on the phone. Thirty-five is the new forty.”
“Something isn’t right, Matt. I know it.”
