Chapter 25
Laurent
She didn’t utter a single word to me. When she finally did speak, it was to ask Garrett to stop at a service station.
I couldn’t blame her. In one breath, I’d promised her change, and in the next, I’d panicked and threatened the family who sheltered her.
The petite Asian woman met my eyes with unfiltered contempt. She told Lucia to wait and disappeared into the shop. When she returned, it was with a small, sealed envelope.
“Your wages,” she’d whispered.
I glanced at Lucia’s sleeping form. Even in sleep, she was turned away from me, clinging to the door like it was the only solid thing left in her world.
“You’ve got a real way with the ladies. Teach me your ways, oh great master,” Garrett drawled, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“You’re fired,” I muttered.
“No one else is going to put up with you,” he shot back.
I did what I had to do. Lucia was mine—and so was the child she carried.
All I had to do now was prove myself to her.
Without being an asshole.
That was the tricky part.
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“Want me to drag her inside and lock her up in your basement?” Garrett bitched at me, but with great restraint, I ignored the bastard.
“Make sure all of her belongings are treated with care when they turn up,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him before turning to Lucia.
“Lucia,” I whispered as she huddled deeper into her corner. “We’re home.”
Garrett scoffed.
Lucia’s eyes fluttered open, and I braced myself for the fallout. She shrugged my hand off her shoulder as Garrett opened the door for her.
The locks clicked into place from the inside—a precaution to ensure she didn’t harm herself.
She stepped out of the car without looking back.
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The house was silent, and she was as quiet as a mouse. I crept back to the library door to spy on her. She lay on the couch beneath a thick blanket, the same book resting in her hand. I drank her in like a starving man.
Wisps of hair had escaped her ponytail. Her hair looked thicker, longer. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and it made her seem younger—but I didn’t like the faint circles beneath her eyes. Her knees were drawn up under the blanket, as if to shield our child from some unseen force—probably me.
She was back where she belonged.
I eased away and returned to the kitchen.
My herb-roasted, corn-fed, free-range chicken had turned out succulent last time. It was the first time I’d cooked for her—and for our baby. I wanted it to be perfect.
The probe went in, and I drained the juices for the gravy before glazing the vegetables with honey and sprinkling fresh herbs over them. I slid the tray back into the oven. The chicken was resting, and I started on the gravy.
Thank you, Nigella Lawson.
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As she walked into the kitchen, I couldn’t take my eyes off her ass. It was rounder now, but I supposed she needed the extra cushioning for when she sat down. My hands itched to touch her.
Did she know how sexy she looked carrying our baby?
She paused, and I tore my gaze away from her rear, moving to pull out her chair. Once she sat, I pushed it in slightly, and she gripped the table. I carved the chicken, knowing she liked the leg pieces, and filled her plate until she raised a hand.
By the time I sat down, she’d already made a start. She didn’t need to say anything; once she began eating, she didn’t stop until her plate was clear.
“Are you going in to work tomorrow?” she asked, breaking her silence.
“I’ve taken a year out for paternity leave,” I said, casually biting into a Chantenay carrot.
“You took—” She stopped, her brain clearly catching up. One brow arched, sceptical. “Sure, you did.”
I shrugged and chewed my tender, sweet root vegetable.
“You have my complete attention.”
She folded her arms and slumped into her chair.
“Yay, me.”
I almost frowned, but realised this could count as practice for handling a future teenage daughter.
I smiled sweetly at her—but she looked disturbed.
Her hands moved to her swollen abdomen, fingers tracing slow lines up and down. Maybe she was trying to self-soothe.
Or—
“Is the baby moving?” I asked, quickly setting my fork down.
She shook her head, and disappointment hit hard. I’d missed everything.
“May I be excused from the table, Your Majesty?”
I scowled and nodded.
She held the table as she stood. I almost got up to help her, but I knew she’d reject me.
“You’re sleeping in my room,” I called after her.
If she could’ve made a faster exit, she would have. Instead, she waddled furiously away—and all I could do was watch her ass jiggle.
I was pretty sure she called me a dickhead as the door shut behind her.
I stared at my plate and let out a long, heavy sigh.
She didn’t even thank me for dinner.