Page 80 of Wicked Ruin

The silence that follows is enormous.

“Bridget—” I reach for her against every rational thought I have, and when I do, she tries to pull away.

“Don’t—” But the papers she’s holding fall to the ground, along with a small white bottle. We both bend at the same time to pick them up, and my eyes fall on bright-pink letters that take me a few seconds to process.

Prenatal vitamins.

I stare, dumbfounded, at the pamphlets lying like an advertisement beside the bottle. Glossy papers. A smiling baby. “Congratulations! You're expecting! What next?”

Did she… Are these… I stare up at her as she goes as white as a cloud, her anger and resistance melting.

Holy fucking⁠—

“Are you… Bridget, are you pregnant?”

Chapter Nineteen

BRIDGET

I don't know when I planned on telling him, but it was definitely not now, definitely not today, definitely not like this.

“I can’t—I don’t⁠—”

I don’t even know what to say. He looks as if he can’t quite comprehend.

God above, I know the feeling.

I move to put myself between him and the damning papers and vitamins, but he's already seen it. Already knows.

“Pregnant,” he whispers. His eyes go soft in a way I wasn't prepared for. “Bridget.”

“I swear to god, Declan McCarthy, if you accuse me of being pregnant by anybody else—if you think for one single second that this is anybody's but yours. If you even open your mouth to suggest—” Then my voice breaks off, and my chin wobbles because I'm pregnant with Declan’s baby, and now he knows, and I have absolutely no idea what happens next.

He falls to his knees.

His knees. Right there on the ground in front of me. He throws his arms around me and buries his face against me. I feel his shoulders shudder as my heart does something strange and unsteady because I think—I think Declan might be crying?

I anchor my fingers in his hair and hold him there as fresh tears slide down my own cheeks because I wasn't ready for this either. I wasn't ready for him to be like this.

“A baby,” he says, muffled against me. Not a question. Just the words, as if he needs to hear them out loud to make them real. “Yours. Ours.”

“It was that night,” I say softly.

He lifts his head. “My god.” He shakes it slowly, looking up at me, and his eyes are watery. I’ve never seen him like this. I put my hand on his cheek. “That's why you've been sick.”

I nod, my own voice husky and a bit wobbly. “Aye. That's why I was sick.”

“Are you alright now?” His voice is raw in a way I've never heard from him. Declan, who is always composed, who is always performing some version of fine—there's nothing performative about this. “How are you feeling? Are there risks? Are you—god, Bridget, how much did you go through alone?”

“I’m good,” I whisper, holding him to reassure him and myself at the same time. “I’m alright. According to the doctor, I’m excellent.”

He’s been gentle with me, but this is something else entirely. This is… undone. This is Declan McCarthy on his knees on the ground, and I'm sniffling in earnest now because somehow, deep down, I knew he would react just like this.

“When did you find out?” He frames my still-flat belly with his hands, leaning in to kiss the center. I melt right there. My throat goes all tight, and my nose tingles.

“When you were in the hospital.” I gesture to the paper still lying on the ground. “That's the proof of it.”

He stands, slowly, like a man making sure of his legs. Then his hands are framing my face, and he's kissing me, properly, like a man who has stopped fighting what he’s wanted—I’ve missed this so much.