Chapter 10 Mia
TEN
MIA
I gasp for air between the violent retches that tear out of my body. I sound like I’m possessed by a demonic force, and the way my throat burns, it’s possible I am.
For the last week, I’ve been sick or felt sick every damn day. It’s like the moment I got that positive test, my symptoms dialed up to eleven.
I’m exhausted, drained to the point where my limbs feel like I’ve run a marathon while dragging weights behind me.
Trembling, I hang my head over the toilet, my stomach convulsing as I try to manage a body that’s no longer mine.
I should’ve known better than to eat. Every time food passes my lips, I end up on the bathroom floor. But if I don’t eat, my husband will have me admitted to a private hospital before I can blink, complete with specialists and a twenty-four seven fetal monitor.
My hand drifts to my stomach, and despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips. I’m already so in love with this little nugget growing inside me—even if it’s trying to kill me.
My body feels different. And not just because I’m throwing up. My hips are fuller and there is the tiniest swell between my hip bones. It’s probably bloat, but to me it’s proof that my baby is real.
“Mia?”
Jensen’s voice drips with concern. I hear him behind me and then his touch is warm on my back.
“Fuck, baby. I’m here.”
I gag, but nothing comes up, and the violent wave subsides into something more bearable. I press a hand to my belly to calm the storm inside me. There’s a slow roll of nausea that sticks to my throat as I suck in a breath through my nose.
I groan. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to be here for this.”
“Of course I’m here.” He says it like I’m crazy for suggesting otherwise.
I sag back against the tub, boneless and weak. “I want you to still think I’m hot, Jensen. Not have visions of me with puke in my hair.”
He stands and I close my eyes to the sound of running water. “You are hot.”
“A hot mess, maybe.” I swallow more bile. My mouth tastes disgusting. I need to brush my teeth—as soon as my legs work again.
“Mia?” I prise open my eyes, wincing. My handsome, amazing husband is crouched in front of me, tormented, worried. “You still with me, mama?”
That name settles inside me like a warm hug, but it’s doused by the acid burning my tongue. “Ask me in a minute.”
Jensen’s brows come together. “I don’t like this.”
I snort. “I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, Jensen.”
“Your appetite is shit,” he says, “and when you do eat you’re barely keeping anything down. You’re already losing weight when you’re meant to be putting it on.”
The crack of fear in his voice has me reaching for him. “I’m okay.” He doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame him. I can only imagine how bad I look. “Help me up?”
The room tilts as he lifts me off the floor.
Fuck. That’s not fun.
“You okay?”
“Mmhm,” I hum, trying not to puke again.
In the mirror, I catch my reflection. Pale skin and dark circles under my eyes that no amount of sleep ever fixes.
I look wrecked.
Jensen grabs my toothbrush and squeezes some paste onto it. Then he hands it to me like I’m five years old. My hand shakes as I take it from him. Neither of us mention it, though he’s clocked it and added it to the list of things stressing him out about this pregnancy.
He stays close as I scrub my mouth, then I wash my face like it’ll rinse off the exhaustion.
His eyes lock on mine in the mirror, and even though he doesn’t say a word, I know he’s pissed.
“Why didn’t you call me when you got sick?” His voice is dangerously low.
“This isn’t a team sport, Jensen.” I spit into the basin and rinse my toothbrush before placing it in the holder. “You can’t carry this for me.”
I slip past him and go into the closet. I’m already mentally planning what to wear. Comfy, but warm. Something that doesn’t cling too much around my bloated stomach. Something I don’t mind smelling of puke.
Jensen follows me, a sign he’s not letting this go. My pulse flutters wildly as the tension snaps between us. It’s like an elastic band that’s been pulled too tight.
I love him, but he’s driving me crazy. I gave in over Mike. I agreed to stop lifting deliveries and to sit down most of the day.
I didn’t even blink yesterday when I tried to grab a coffee with Juno and I had to wait for Theo to run it past Jensen.
But these things are stacking up—quickly. I’m chafing under the pressure of his care. I’m getting to the point where his hovering is pissing me off.
“I can’t take this from you,” he agrees, “but I want to take care of you. I don’t want you to go through this alone, sweetheart.”
His hand slides to the back of my neck and my fingers pause on the sweater I was pulling free of the rack. I turn to him. There’s worry bleeding into his eyes and my stomach twists for a different reason now.
I sigh, my hands resting against his chest. “And I love you for that,” I say, “but I can handle it.”
Lie. I’m handling nothing right now.
He stares at me, like he’s seeing wounds I can’t. “I’m calling Dr. Patel.”
I blink. What the—
I might feel like shit now, but usually the nausea backs off enough for me to get through the day. I might not be thriving, but I am surviving.
“Don’t you dare.” I grab for his phone the second he pulls it out. He lets me take it from him, his jaw clenching. Mine is too. “I’m fine. I don’t need to see the doctor.”
“You’re not fine.”
I count to ten and take a steadying breath. He’s just worried. He’s just overprotective, completely in love with you and all these little things are just about keeping you safe and healthy.
Except, they’re having the opposite affect. I don’t feel like his wife. I feel like his problem.
“I’m pregnant, Jensen,” I say slowly. “Did you think it was going to be nine months of floating around in maternity wear, radiating health and happiness?”
“I didn’t think you’d be this sick. And I sure as hell didn’t think you’d be sneaking around to throw up.”
My chest tightens, and my guilt sharpens my tone. “I didn’t sneak.”
“I only knew you’d gotten sick because I heard you.”
I throw my hands up, frustrated and too exhausted to have this argument. “Because I can’t even sneeze without you calling Dr. Patel.”
He frowns at my outburst. “I’m just taking care of you.”
Calm down, Mia. Jensen isn’t the enemy. He’s just your idiot husband.
I rub my aching temple.
“You’re coddling me,” I correct, “and I don’t feel like I can say anything or feel anything or do anything without you freaking out.”
His shoulders are tight as he stares at me. Yeah, he’s really hurt and normally I’d give him space to feel what he needs to, but I don’t have the energy to do that and drag myself through the first trimester hellscape.
“Is that what you think I’m doing, Mia? Coddling?” He steps closer, his huge frame blocking out the rest of the room. “You know what I really want to do?” His hand covers my stomach, so gentle and yet possessive. “I want to tie you to our bed and force you to rest.”
His words aren’t anything I haven’t heard from him before, but they punch harder this time.
“Kinky,” I mutter, “but also unnecessary. You don’t have to tie me to keep me in our bed, Jensen. I sleep beside you every night willingly. But you can’t control this.” I gesture to my stomach. “I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be tired and grumpy and hormonal. It comes with the baby.”
“I know you’re going to be all of those things.
And I know I’m difficult—” I snort. He ignores it.
Obviously “—but I can’t handle you keeping things from me.
” He catches my chin, his grip firm but not hard.
I glare at him. Defiant. Pissed still. “You don’t hide this from me, Mia.
Not ever. You get sick, you call me. Your back hurts, you tell me so I can rub it.
I want to be here when you need me.” That slow twist goes through my gut again as his gaze combs over my face. “Please don’t push me out.”
I stare at the man I’ve loved since I was fourteen years old. I want him involved, but I want to breathe, too.
I run my hands over his chest, the cotton of his shirt soft beneath my fingers. I can’t feel his heart pounding, but I’m sure it is. “I’m not trying to, but I need you to stop acting like every symptom is a red alert. Dr. Patel’s going to stop taking our calls if you don’t chill.”
And honestly, I wouldn’t blame her.
He presses his forehead to mine, his arms around me, like he can sew our bodies together. “I can’t. You’re my wife, Mia—the love of my life. And when I see you suffering, I want to take care of you—especially when you’re not taking care of yourself.”
That annoys me. I mean, everything annoys me right now, but that? Yeah.
I pull back and glare at him, flaying him with my eyes. “I am taking care of myself.”
“By throwing up alone and hiding it from me?”
“I’m not trying to hide from you. I’m just—” I pause, the words sticking in my throat. “I’m trying to keep us both sane.”
“I’m not sane when it comes to you and this baby.
You’re my entire world, and I’d die if anything happens to you.
” Oh. Damn. How the hell do I stay angry when he says shit like that?
His fingers thread through my hair and I melt into him without meaning to.
I’m a weak bitch. “I’ll tell Theo and Mike you don’t need them today. ”
Whiplash—that’s what he giving me. Because I’m no longer soft. I’m pissed again. “I don’t need to stay home. I need to be at the gallery.”
His brows arch. “You just threw up like you were dying.”
He’s not wrong, but I’m still not sitting at home like my only task is to push out his heirs. “And I’m already feeling better.”
The tiny slither of control he gives me is being crushed under his boots. My gallery, my work—that’s always been mine. He’s not taking that from me.
Jensen’s jaw clenches. “Mia.”
“No,” I hiss, poking his chest. “You can be overbearing about my schedule, my safety, but not this, Jensen. I love my job and I want to do it for as long as I can through this pregnancy. I’m not going to keep having this argument every time I get sick.
It’s exhausting.” I kiss his jaw, hoping to settle him.
“I love you,” another kiss, “but stop driving me crazy.” I step back.
“I need to get ready to leave, and you’re already late. ”
He is, but he doesn’t move right away. His eyes are dark and starving, so fucking gone for me that my heart stutters. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs.
Then he pulls me in for another desperate kiss. His mouth is hot and commanding as he claims me with a need carved from obsession. It’s like he’s trying to take back the last five minutes of arguing, like he thinks if he kisses me hard enough, I’ll forget why I was mad.
And it works.
My toes curl into the carpet, my fingers twisting into his shirt until he finally pulls back. There’s a hit of insanity in his eyes before he locks it back down.
“I love you so fucking much I don’t know what to do with it,” he murmurs.
“I know. I love you too.”
“You call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I promise.
I only let out a breath when he leaves the bedroom, and I’m alone. I run a hand over my stomach where our baby is growing, oblivious to the chaos they’re causing.
“Little nugget, you’re going to need to behave better than this if we’re going to get through the next few months without your daddy chaining us in the house.”