But it’s none of those things.
“How the fuck could you let this happen?” he snaps, grasping my sore chin between his fingers and forcing me to look up at him.
“I think it was the flu I had last month. I must have thrown up my pill and not realized.” It’s the only thing I can think of because I’m religious about taking my birth control.
Not even because I’m afraid of falling pregnant, but because it helps manage my worsening symptoms. The specialist said things should get better the older I get, the further I get from puberty, but every cycle is worse than the last, and the pill is the only thing that has made any difference to the hell I face for two weeks of every month.
Pregnancy always felt like a nonissue considering the doctors told me my chance of conceiving without intervention was next to none, making the little bean growing inside me a miracle.
His attention drops to my stomach for a beat before coming back to focus on my eyes. “Have they hit your stomach?”
I shake my head. “Only my face,” I whisper.
Some of the tension releases from his shoulders, and for a second I let myself think he’s worried about me.
But I stopped believing Damon cared whether I lived or died a long time ago.
For all I know, this is just another one of his tricks, and I refuse to fall for it.
Not again.
He keeps hold of my face with one hand and reaches behind him for something.
I flinch, half expecting him to produce a gun, but the sight of a bottle of water has confusion washing over me.
His brows furrow at my reaction, but he uncaps the bottle and holds it against my lips, allowing me to drink greedily for a handful of seconds before taking it away too soon.
“You can have more in a minute, but it’ll make you sick if you rehydrate too quickly.”
I nod slowly, my movement still stunted by his hold on me.
He’s so close I can see the flecks of brown in his eyes that I’ve missed so much over the last few years. You can only see them if you’re looking, but they make the icy pools even more enchanting.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.
Damon stares down at me for long seconds, his fingers tracing my jaw reverently. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
DAMON
NOW
Keeping myself out of the cellar is harder than it should be.
I’ve spent hours in the gym lifting the heaviest weights my muscles can handle. I’ve tried to lock myself in my office and lose myself in work.
And I’ve even gone as far as leaving the compound in the hope that distance would help.
But time and time again, I find myself watching the feed from her cell.
Ronan left an hour ago after watching her sleep for longer than he should have, but she hasn’t moved.
She’s given up.
The spitfire I used to know, the one that met me toe-to-toe and called me on my bullshit, is missing, and I fucking hate it.
Far more than I should.
