I drench the collar of his shirt as he rocks me in his arms.
When I get control of myself enough that I’m not a blubbering mess, I look up at him. “She’s going to be perfect.”
His eyes are my favorite color right now, liquid mercury. “She is.”
Sniffling, I curl the ends of his longish hair that he wasn’t ready to cut but I made him trim at least because it was starting to poke him in his wolf eyes. “We have to protect her, Reed. We have to take care of her. She’ll be so small and she won’t know anything at all. We have to be there for her. Promise me.”
He swallows, his eyes growing even more liquid if possible, his arms around me flexing and squeezing. “We will.”
“And we have to love her. She has to know that. She has to know that Mommy and Daddy love her the most and that we’d do anything for her.”
His jaw tics a couple of time before he reaches up and wipes off my tears, promising again, “She will know it.”
***
“Why won’t you do it?”
I can’t believe I asked him that.
But I don’t know what else to do anymore. Except ask him point blank.
He’s at the door of the glass house, his white shirt wrinkled, his suit jacket hanging from his arm. He was about to leave. Since I don’t get sick anymore, he leaves after making me lose my mind over him and putting me to sleep.
And I was asleep, but maybe it’s the whole emotional upheaval of the day because we just found out the sex of the baby, or maybe I’m just so tired of him denying himself, that I woke up as soon as he rolled out of bed.
I’m standing in the hallway and I approach him, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.
Still, somehow he hears them, my silent feet, and he turns around.
His shoulders sigh at the sight of me. “Go back to bed.”
I keep walking toward him. “Not until you tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
I reach him and I see that he fists his hand at his sides, as if bracing himself. “Why won’t you fuck me?”
His eyes narrow, flashing bright in the dim lighting of the living room. “Fuck you?”
I swallow. “Yes. Why won’t you?”
Something falls over his features, a coldness. “Is that the first time you’re using that word?”
The same coldness I saw that night two years ago.
The same coldness I saw the night I forgave him.
So I’m not going to be deterred.
I fist my hands too. “No. I used it the night you did fuck me. In your Mustang.”
He hates my comeback. I can see it on his rigid features, his V-shaped jaw. “So what, you’re an expert now? I fucked you once and you think you can use that word whenever you feel like it?”
I raise my chin. “I can use that word whenever I feel like it. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m free to do whatever I fucking want.”
He exhales a sharp breath. “Well, in that case feel free to go back to bed.”
“No,” I tell him because I’ve had it. “Not until you tell me why you won’t fuck me. I know you want to. I know that. I can feel it. I can feel you, all hard and horny and needy. I feel you, Reed. So why won’t you do it? Why would you torture yourself like this? Is it still about punishing yourself? I’ve forgiven you, okay? I don’t want you to punish yourself anymore.”
“Yeah, it’s about that. It’s about punishing myself. You happy now? Now go back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Instead of backing off like he wants me to, I go up to him.
I bump his stupid shoes with my ugly cut-up ballerina toes. “I told you I’m not going until you tell me why. Why are you doing this, Reed? Why are you making yourself suffer?”
He clenches his jaw, his eyes brimming with something.
Something frustrating and angry and agonizing that I don’t understand.
But then he makes me.
He makes me understand all of it as he asks, “You want to know why? You want to know why I won’t fuck you? It’s because of you.”
“What?”
“It’s because of this,” he spits out, looking me up and down with a coldness that still has the power to chill my bones. “It’s because you just won’t let it go. It’s because you won’t stop begging.”
I draw back from him. “Begging.”
But he bends down to cover the distance that I’ve created between us. “What else do you think you’re doing? You forgave me even when I didn’t deserve it, fine. I gave you a couple of mind-blowing orgasms. I rocked your world. But now you’re back to begging. Now you’re back to thinking that I’m a fucking hero. A fucking hero who you can let inside your body. A hero who can fuck you. Where does this end, Fae? If I fuck you, are you going to fall in love with me again? Because if you are, tell me right now so I can go hide my fucking Mustang. Because I’m only going to break your heart again.”
“Get out.”
I say it calmly, evenly.
So much so that I don’t even think that I’ve said it. I think I’ve whispered it. Whispered it to the wind so it can carry my words to him.
The guy who’s standing only a few feet away from me.
But we might as well be miles apart. Millions of them.
He might as well be in a different dimension because of what he just said.
Because of what he just stupidly, callously said.
“Get out,” I say again, this time loudly, more determinedly. “Now.”
I don’t know if I’m imagining it or what but something flashes through his features. A wave of anguish, and he swallows before throwing me a short nod. “Fine.”
He turns around and leaves then.
I watch him bound down the porch stairs and stride toward his car that glints in the night. I watch him jerk the door open and get inside before peeling out of the driveway.
I watch him and watch him and when I can’t see him anymore, my eyes fill with tears.
A sob catches in my throat.
But I don’t let it out.
I won’t.
I refuse to cry for him anymore. I refuse to waste even a single tear on him. After all the progress we’ve made, all the tender and intimate moments that we’ve shared, he goes and does this. He hurts me like this.
Asshole.
God, he’s an asshole. A cruel fucking asshole. A villain.
And yet I’m crying for him.
I can’t stop the tears that I just promised myself that I will never shed for him. What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with you, Callie?
What is wrong with you that you lo…
No.
No, no, no.
I can’t. I won’t.
And suddenly I’m so angry at myself. So angry at him for pulling this, for being so cold, that I pant and heave. I march to the glass door and slam it shut.
And lock it.
I turn every lock on the door as if I’m keeping something out, and I am.
I’m keeping him out.
Even though I know he has a key and it’s his friend’s house — I still don’t know who — and he can get in any time he wants, I won’t let him.
As irrational as it is, I won’t let him come inside.
As soon as I’m done, my knees give out though and I slide down to the floor. And I completely smash the promise that I just made myself. Propped up against the locked glass door, I let myself go and cry.
I hug my knees and I sob.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
I hate him so much and the thought of it makes me cry all over again because it’s a lie.
I don’t hate him. That’s the problem.
Because I’m still stupid.
Because even though all I wanted to do was forgive him and move on, I know that I haven’t. Not completely. Not how I wanted.
Because all I have moved on from is the past, not him.
I’ve already committed the crime.
He’s right.
It’s done and I can’t… I can’t bear it.
And so I sob and sob for hours and days and an age.
Until I hear a sound.
A screech.
Tires burning the gravel that dulls out the sounds of my broken sobs. And then comes a flood of light pouring through the glass door and chasing away the shadows.
I spring up from where I’m sitting on the floor and spin around to find his Mustang coming to a jerking stop.
Out of which he climbs.
My gorgeous villain.
He’s here.
A glowing silhouette. A dark shadow.
Tall and broad as he stands by his Mustang. A dream. A beautiful nightmare.
I have to squint against the headlights so I can’t really tell the details of his face, but when the light goes off and he bangs the door shut, taking a step toward the house, I do the opposite.
I take a step back and away from the door.
And I keep doing that. I keep moving away from him. For every step that brings him closer to the house, to the door, to me, I take a step back.
Until he’s at the door and my legs touch the back of the cozy white couch, feet and feet away from him.
He watches me through the thick glass, his chest heaving up and down, his mouth slightly parted, his wolf eyes glowing.
Hungry.
And despite everything, I clench my thighs together. The thighs that are still wet with my juices and his mouth.
I clench them harder when he runs those heated eyes all over my body. From my loose hair to my rapidly breathing chest and his hoodie that I’m wearing over my floral-printed pajama pants. His eyes stop at my belly for a second or two, the outline of which is now visible through his baggy hoodie.
Only slightly though, but still.
She flutters inside me and I cradle it under his scrutiny.
His eyes narrow when he notices it and his hands that were fisted by his sides unfurl. He grabs the knob then and turns it.
Or tries to.
But it doesn’t budge.
He looks up, something dark and possessive flashing through his gorgeous features, and I raise my trembling chin up.
There. Take that. I locked the door.
When he understands my silent answer, he says, “Open the door.”
He commands it really and his order, given in a thick rough voice, makes me press my hand on my belly and clench my wet, needy thighs again. “No.”
His cheekbones jut out in anger. “Open the fucking door.”
My heart is thudding in my chest and I shake my head. “No.”
His chest pushes out on a long breath. “If you don’t open it right the fuck now, Fae, I’m going to break it down.”
I sniffle. “Do it. It’s your friend’s house. You’re the one who’s going to have to explain why his door is broken.”
He studies my face, watches me wipe my tears, and his anger mounts. Putting both his hands on the glass door, he says gutturally, “You’re fucking crying, Fae, and I can’t get to you. I’m losing it, okay? So open this fucking door so I can make it better.”
Gah.
Why does he have to sound so anguished and so agonized over the fact that I’m crying? He’s the one who made me cry in the first place. He doesn’t get to make it better.
And I tell him that, even though my heart is twisting in my chest and I have to curl my toes to stop myself from going to the door. “You don’t get to make it better. Not after how cruel and mean you were. Go away.”
I would’ve done a lot more.
I would’ve turned around and given him my back but I feel something.
In my belly.
And I have to bring my other hand up too. I have to bring it up to my pregnant belly and press it with both hands. I have to bend down and look away from Reed. I have to look at my trembling fingers.
Oh God.
What is… what is happening?
Because something is happening.
Something… something that I’ve never felt before and oh my God, I clutch my belly harder when I feel it again.
It’s not pain exactly, but it’s something, and I gasp when it happens for the third time and something, a little thing, kicks into my hand. As if pressing back from the inside, and that’s when I know.
That’s when I know it’s her.
She’s kicking back.
My baby girl is kicking back.
She’s moving inside of me — something that I’ve waited for so long and it feels so different than what I expected it to be, and from those flutters that I’ve been feeling for weeks now — and the euphoria is so great that my knees give out for the second time tonight and I plop down on the couch.
She’s kicking inside of me and I’m about to tell him that.
The one person I want to tell everything to, her daddy, but I hear a crash.
A shattering sound, and before I can blink away my tears and figure out the source of it, he’s here.
He’s kneeling on the floor in front of me, both his hands on my hands that are still on my belly. “What… what’s happening?”
I notice the splotches of blood on his knuckles and I let go of my belly to grab his hand. “What happened? What did you…” Glancing up, I see that the door is open and there’s broken glass all over the floor. “Oh my God, Reed —”
“What the fuck is happening, Fae?” he cuts me off. “Should I call the doctor? No, of course I should. Of course. I just need to figure out where the fuck my phone is and —”
I put my hand on his lips to make him stop.
He’s rambling. He never rambles.
I stare into his panicked gaze and tell him, “Everything is fine. I just got scared for a second.” His breathing is still haphazard on my palm so I put my other hand on his and make it press on my belly. “It’s her. She moved, I think. I’ve never felt anything like that before. It’s kind of like the flutters but not really and —”
My eyes go wide and his breath stops altogether.
Because she moves again.
And his hand on my belly comes alive. The pads of his fingers dig into my flesh that has become harder now that she’s growing inside of me. When she kicks again, I see his eyes flaring for a second before crinkling slightly and so I take my hand off his mouth to reveal the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen on him.
When she does it again, he chuckles slightly, his eyes on my belly, and I bite my lip at how gorgeous he looks.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers.
Goosebumps rise on my skin at his possessive tone and she kicks again as if at his voice, to say hi to him. “She’s feisty.”
He lifts his eyes. “Like her mommy.”
That’s the first time he’s said that, mommy, and my heart skips a beat.
It races in the next second when he continues, “Halo.”
I frown at his reverent whisper. “What?”
“Her name.”
“Her name?”
“Yeah,” he whispers again, his fingers glued to my belly. “Like the circle of light on an angel. Or a fairy.”
A rush goes through my chest. A big huge rush of warmth.
Halo.
My baby girl. Our baby girl.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper back, my eyes stinging again but this time with happy tears.
“Halo Jackson.”
“Did you think of it just now?”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “I’ve always known.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.”
I’ve been proposing name after name that he kept rejecting. And we’ve had countless arguments about it. Well, I have argued. He’s simply looked at me with amused eyes and twitching lips.
And now I know why.
Because he always had a name.
He al
ways knew she was Halo.
I frown. “Well, why didn’t you tell me then?”
“Because it was more fun to watch you get all excited about stupid names before I shot them down.”
And then I have to ask him again, “Why do you hide the things that might make someone like you?”
That might make me like you…
His eyes move back and forth between mine, his fingers on my belly flex and, swallowing, he rasps, “Because I don’t want to be liked.”
Not by you…
I hear his unspoken words, and the heart that was already twisting in my chest squeezes even more. So much so that I feel like all my vessels and chambers will burst and explode and he’ll kill me with everything that I feel for him.
Despite my better judgement. Despite history teaching me.
Despite him.
“Listen, Fae, about earlier —”
I don’t let him talk though. I grab his wrist and take his hand off my belly. When I stand up, I take him with me and drag him to the bathroom. He goes without a word.
I guess he knows what I’m going to do.
He knows that I’m going to clean and bandage his cuts.
He hits the lights in the bathroom and I let go of his hand to get all the stuff together. When it’s all out on the counter, I grab his bleeding hand again.
I keep my eyes on the task but I know he’s watching me.
“Where’s your key?” I ask.
“Threw it away.”
“Why?”
“So I don’t get to you. When I want to. So you’re safe from me.”
My heart twists again and I bite my lip at how much it must sting him when I run the cotton swab over his scrapes, but he doesn’t move a muscle.
“Did you punch the door?” I ask then.
“No.”
“Then?”
“Found a rock. Busted the glass with it.”
I shake my head, still looking at his hand as I wrap a bandage around it. “I was mad at you. Am mad at you.”
“I know.”
“But I was fine. She — Halo — was fine.”
“It didn’t look like that from where I was standing.”
I sigh sharply, finishing up. “What you said to me was rude. It was uncalled for and it was mean.”
“That’s why I said it.”
I look up then. “What?”
A Gorgeous Villain Page 44
