Mine.
The possessiveness of the thought shocks me. Thewantbehind it. The way my cock throbs at the image of her pregnant with my baby.
I pour another drink. Drain it.
She wants babies,something whispers in the back of my mind.She saved pictures of nurseries. Of mothers and fathers and children.
She wants a family.
You could give her that.
I set the glass down hard enough that it cracks. Stare out at the harbor lights, breathing through the need clawing at my insides.
I'm going to give her everything she's ever wanted.
3
Lily
Something is changing.
I feel it in the way he looks at me now—longer, heavier, like he's trying to memorize my face. I feel it in the way his hand lingers on my back when he passes me in the kitchen. I feel it in the charged silence that stretches between us at dinner, full of words neither of us is saying.
And I feel it in my own body, which has started doing things I don't understand.
We've been sharing his bed since that first night. He was going to take the couch—give me space, keep things proper—but I begged him to stay. The nightmares were too much. The darkness too heavy. I needed his warmth, his solidity, the steady rhythm of his breathing to anchor me to reality.
It started as survival. He held me through the screaming, the sobbing, the clawing panic of memories I couldn't escape. Every night, the same routine—nightmare, then his arms around me,his voice in my ear:You're safe. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere.
But lately, lying next to him feels like something else entirely.
Like right now. He's sitting across from me at the breakfast table, reading something on his phone, and I can't stop staring at his hands. Big. Scarred. The same hands that bathed me so gently that first night. The same hands that have killed more people than I probably want to know.
My stomach tightens. Lower, between my legs, there's a pulse I don't recognize.
I squeeze my thighs together and look away.
What is wrong with me?
"Lily."
I jump. He's watching me now, phone forgotten.
"You're not eating."
I look down at my eggs. I've been pushing them around the plate for ten minutes. "Not hungry."
"You need to eat."
"I will."
He studies me for a long moment, those ice-blue eyes seeing too much. Then he goes back to his phone.
I force myself to take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
But I can still feel that pulse between my legs, and I have no idea what to do about it.
It gets worse.
