And I'll kill anyone who tries to take it away.
twelve
. . .
Priscilla
Two weekssince Woodrow put a ring on my finger. Two months since he rescued me in that parking lot and brought me to this cabin. Two months since my life transformed from lonely, predictable existence to something wild and passionate and completely unexpected. I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the plastic stick in my hand, the two pink lines unmistakable even as tears blur my vision. Pregnant. I'm pregnant with Woodrow's child. All that talk about breeding me, filling me with his seed, putting his baby in me—it wasn't just dirty talk. It worked. His virile, possessive body has claimed mine in the most primal, permanent way possible. And I'm terrified. Not of the pregnancy, not of the baby growing inside me. I'm terrified of how much I want this. Of how right it feels. Of how completely I've surrendered to the life he's created for us.
The bathroom door feels miles away, though it's only a few steps. Beyond it, Woodrow is chopping wood for the fireplace—a task he insists on doing himself despite having the money to buy pre-cut cords by the truckload. "Need to keep my skills sharp," he told me once. "Need to stay strong to protect what's mine."
What's his. Me. And now, our baby.
The thought sends a fresh wave of tears down my cheeks, but they're happy tears. Overwhelmed tears. I press a trembling hand to my still-flat stomach, trying to comprehend that a new life is growing there. A life created from our passion, our obsession, our love.
So much has changed since those first terrifying days. We moved out of the cabin two weeks after his proposal, to a larger house on fifty acres of land. Still remote, still defensible—Woodrow will never compromise on security—but with more space. Room to grow, he said. Room for a family. As if he knew, somehow, what was already happening inside me.
I've started writing again too, something I hadn't done since college. Romance novels, just like I always dreamed. Woodrow set up an office for me, complete with a view of the mountains and bookshelves filled with classics and contemporary romance alike. "You have stories to tell," he said, kissing the top of my head. "And I want to hear every one."
It's strange how quickly I've adapted to this new life. How natural it feels to wake up beside him every morning, to fall asleep in his arms every night. How right it feels when he calls me his little girl, when he takes control in the bedroom, when he makes decisions with my protection in mind.
The old Priscilla—the one who kept everyone at arm's length, who valued her independence above all else—would be horrified. But that Priscilla was lonely. Empty. Unfulfilled. This Priscilla is loved. Protected. Complete.
And now, pregnant.
I look down at the test again, the two pink lines still boldly declaring my new reality. I'd suspected for a few days now—my period is two weeks late, my breasts tender, unexplained waves of nausea in the mornings. But seeing the confirmation in my hand makes it real in a way mere suspicion couldn't.
I take a deep breath, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. Time to tell him. Time to see if all his talk about breeding me, about wanting me round with his child, was more than just heat-of-the-moment dirty talk.
My legs are shaky as I stand, my heart pounding against my ribs as I open the bathroom door. I can hear the rhythmic thunk of the axe splitting wood outside, can picture Woodrow's powerful body as he works, muscles rippling beneath his thin t-shirt despite the autumn chill.
I make my way through our bedroom, down the stairs, through the living room with its massive stone fireplace—currently cold, awaiting the wood he's chopping—and out onto the back porch.
He senses me immediately, the way he always does. His head turns, eyes finding mine with unerring precision across the yard. He pauses mid-swing, something in my expression making him lower the axe and start toward me.
"What's wrong?" he asks, closing the distance between us in long strides, concern etched on his features. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, tears threatening again. How do I tell him? What if he's not ready? What if?—
"Priscilla." His hands cup my face, tilting it up to meet his intense gaze. "Tell me what's wrong. Now."
The command in his voice steadies me, grounds me the way it always does. I reach into the pocket of my cardigan, pulling out the pregnancy test, holding it up between us.
"I'm pregnant," I whisper, watching his face carefully for his reaction. "We're going to have a baby."
For a long moment, he just stares at the little plastic stick, his expression completely unreadable. Then, slowly, his eyes lift to meet mine, and what I see there takes my breath away. Wonder. Joy. Fierce, possessive pride.
"Mine," he growls, one large hand moving to cover my still-flat stomach. "My baby. Growing inside you."
A sob of relief escapes me. "You're happy? You want this?"
"Happy?" He lifts me off my feet in a crushing embrace, spinning me in a circle that makes me dizzy. "Fucking ecstatic. You're carrying my child, Priscilla.Ourchild.”
When he sets me down, his hands are gentle, almost reverent as they frame my face. "How are you feeling? Any sickness? Pain? Discomfort?"
I laugh through my tears at his sudden shift to protective concern. "Some nausea in the mornings. Tired. Emotional, obviously." I gesture to my tear-streaked face. "But good. Happy."
He kisses me then, so tender it makes my heart ache. Not the usual consuming passion, but something softer, deeper. When he pulls back, his thumbs wipe away my tears, his eyes searching mine.
