12. Lev
Chapter 12
Lev
I ’m not the brooding type.
Sleep usually comes easy to me. Most of the time, I’m entirely present in the moment, even when I’m struggling to contain some of my darker impulses. That’s what makes me so charming: when I’m having a conversation, I’m completely and totally inside of it. Distractions roll off my back like waves.
Except tonight. My wedding night.
Most men imagine sleeping with their pretty wife and consummating the rest of their lives. Even though that was never going to happen, I assumed we’d at least go to bed without hating each other.
Looks like I was wrong.
As I sit up alone in the living room drinking another whiskey to take the edge off, I keep reliving our first dance.
The bickering. The teasing.
The way she felt under my hands as I moved closer to her. I couldn’t control myself, and even though I knew I should shut my mouth and keep my distance, I couldn’t stop.
She drives me fucking crazy.
This sudden flood of confused emotions is hard to square with the way I’ve been for years. Because of my dark inclinations, I’ve shut myself down and worked hard to shove away anything remotely resembling a big feeling.
With Carmie, it’s like all that work is ruined.
She makes me feel. Mostly, I feel pissed off and resentful, but there are other emotions too.
Lust is at the top of the list.
God, that fucking girl. She looked so goddamn beautiful in that dress. Conservative and out of fashion, but it fit her perfectly. I could barely control myself every time she came near, which is why I stayed the fuck away for most of the night.
Until that dance.
Until she turned my life upside down.
How the hell am I going to be a father?
I know what it’s like to grow up with a monster in the house. I know what it does to a man if their only parental figure is a psychopath.
How can I possibly put my own child through something like that?
Everything is beyond fucked.
I’m about to do something evil and wickedly dangerous, and all the while I’m supposed to prepare for a baby.
How can I look myself in the mirror knowing that I’m about to become a dad while planning to murder my own father?
Sunlight streams in through the windows as I make coffee. I got a few hours of sleep on the couch at most. A hangover gnaws at my head.
I welcome the pain. I’m in a black mood, and no amount of caffeine’s going to cure the demons stirring in my chest. It’s around seven in the morning when I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and Carmie appears.
Her dark hair’s messy and pulled back in a bun. The clothes I gave her are rolled at the ankles and wrists and fit her curvy body like a bag, but my heart still leaps when she comes into the kitchen. Her eyes are bleary, and she looks almost as tired as I feel.
“Want some of this?” I grunt at her and pour a mug of coffee.
She hesitates before accepting it. “If I drink this stuff, will I be trapped here forever?”
I blink at her and frown. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know, like faeries? You eat and drink in their world, and then you can’t escape? Never mind, my brain isn’t working yet.” She groans as she sits down on my couch. “You know what’s really messed up? I’m not even supposed to have much of this.”
“Caffeine’s bad for the baby,” I say, remembering one of the very few things I know about pregnancy. No alcohol, no caffeine, and no raw fish. Beyond that, it’s a mystery.
“Just like everything fun, basically.” She stares longingly at the mug. “I love this stuff. I’ve been deeply addicted since I was a teenager.”
“Sounds healthy.”
“Definitely isn’t. And now here I am, thinking about another stupid thing I’ll have to give up.” She closes her eyes and drinks.
I stare, unable to look away. Those lips, the sigh she makes. It stirs something in me.
I want to grab her by the hair and crush her mouth with my own. I want to kiss her until she bleeds.
But no, that’s the fucked-up talking.
She’s the mother of my child and nothing more.
“We should talk about how this is going to work.” I lean against the kitchen island and watch her.
She shakes her head. “I’d really rather not.”
“We’re married. You don’t think we should talk about it?”
“I know what you’re going to say.” She gives me a mocking glare like she’s pretending to be me. “ Sleep in my bed, woman. Cook my dinners and clean my bathroom. Is that about it?”
“I don’t want you cooking or cleaning, but the bed part sounds right.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know where that’s coming from, but you can stop. If you think you owe me something, here I am, absolving you.” She waves a hand in the air like she’s flicking a wand in my direction. “Bippity-boppity-boo, no more guilt for you. All better?”
I put down my coffee. “This isn’t about guilt. It’s about making sure you’re taken care of. Because if I’m going to be a father, I’m going to be the best father possible, which means making sure my wife is looked after.”
Her lips press together. She doesn’t speak as she processes that, and I let her. We’re deep in uncharted territory right now. I don’t know what the right thing to say or do is anymore.
All I want is to get through this without killing anyone.
But knowing me, that’s not likely.
“That’s it then? I’m just the baby oven to you?”
“And I’m just the sperm donor. Don’t pretend like we have some deep, meaningful relationship.”
“I didn’t say that, it’s just—” She takes another sip of coffee, curses quietly, and puts the mug down on the end table. “Did you stop and think about what I want in all this? Maybe I’m not interested in playing house with you. Maybe I don’t want you involved in this baby’s life at all.”
I try not to let my anger show. It takes a lot of well-trained effort to hide the violent rage that shivers down my spine.
“That’s not going to happen,” I say and bury my feelings with a charming smile.
She looks unnerved. “I’m just saying, you can’t make unilateral decisions about my life without talking to me first.”
“This is me talking.” I move toward her, smile still in place. “I’ll drop you off at your father’s house this afternoon, and you can pack your things. Whatever you forget, we’ll send for later. You can have the right side of the closet, and we’ll get you a dresser. Take as much space in the bathroom as you want. If you need something, ask for it. But you’re not hiding from me, little fencer. I’m going to be a part of this baby’s life.”
Her jaw ticks. I can tell she’s pissed. Slowly, she pushes to her feet. “I want to keep our lives as separate as possible.”
“Not going to happen.”
“You can be a part of the baby’s life when they’re born,” she says, ignoring me. “You’re the father. I’m not that much of an asshole. And we’re stuck together too, so we might as well try to be cordial. But I’m not going to pretend like this is something more than it is.” She gestures in the air between us. “Because from my perspective, this is nothing more than a mistake.”
I know she’s right. This sudden change of heart I’m going through isn’t about her—it’s about the baby. And if she guarantees I’ll be in my child’s life, that should be enough.
Except it isn’t. It’s so far from enough.
Carmie’s my child’s mother. She’s my wife , even if it’s a mistake, like she seems to think. That doesn’t mean I love her or even like her very much, but it does mean that I’m going to make damn sure she’s protected, taken care of, and as healthy as possible for when this kid shows up.
I’m about to tell her all that when she suddenly turns pale, turns to the stairs, and bolts.
I watch in surprise. Who knew she could run that fast?
I follow, mostly because I’m not sure what else to do. My anger evaporates, replaced with something else.
Concern. Empathy.
It’s a very bizarre emotion. I’m not sure how to handle it.
The door to the hall bathroom is locked, but the sounds of her retching are hard to miss. I get her a glass of water from the kitchen and knock once it’s all quiet in there.
“Just go away,” she groans. “I’m fine. It’s morning sickness.”
“I brought you water.”
I think she’s ignoring me, but the door cracks open and she shoves her hand out. I give her the glass and it disappears back inside.
“Go away,” she repeats.
“Meet me downstairs when you’re feeling up to it. We’ll leave when you’re ready.”
I leave my wife—the mother of my child—to puke alone in the bathroom, deeply conflicted about how this new marriage is going and what I actually want from her.