72. Conrad
S he’s pregnant.
She’s fucking pregnant.
The one thing I wanted, the one thing I needed, and it’s not even mine.
I slam my fist into the wall, feeling that old stubborn stone forcing my knuckles backwards and the pain helps, if only a little.
I should call the doctor, have this dealt with and sorted before anyone else can find out.
But as I pull the phone from my pocket, I hesitate.
I can hear it, hear her sobs, even from here. I know she didn’t want my child. I know she didn’t want any child, but she is pregnant. If I do this, if I have the brat killed, then she’ll never forgive me. She’ll never fully love me. It will always be there, it will always sit between us, like some festering poison.
And I can’t have that. I just can’t.
My pride might take the hit, but what better way to prove how much she truly means to me, what better way to make her understand that she is everything ?
A plan seems to formulate in my head as I make my way down to the kitchens.
When I return to our bedroom with a tray of food in my hands, I know it’s the right call. I know that doing this will give me everything I want. It will give me her . Every piece of her.
She shrinks back before her brows drop in confusion.
“You need to eat.” I state, laying the wooden tray down between us, as if that simple boundary might give her a sense of courage. “Your baby needs sustenance.”
From the look on her face, it’s clear she thinks she’s misheard me. Or she thinks this is a trick.
Perhaps it is, but it’s not the one she believes it is.
“You want to keep this child?” I say, “Then this is the deal. We have the scans, we ensure it is healthy and if it is, then from that moment on, that child is mine. I put it in you, I am its father.”
“Wwwhat?”
I don’t have to understand the exact words she’s saying to understand the point.
I pick up the cutlery, aware that without her tongue she can’t chew her food, she can’t even swallow decent sized mouthfuls. Silently, I start cutting it all up, making it so tiny she can simply allow it to pass back on the tiny sliver of muscle left.
As I fork up the first miniscule bit, I hold it out for her. She stares at it before opening her lips and for a second, she struggles before she gets it down.
“Do we have a deal, Brynn? You can keep this child but from now on you won’t fight me, you won’t protest, you will do whatever I want. You’ll let me dress you up, let me do your hair, let me parade you about Oblivion as my perfect little wife and you’ll happily take my cock, however I choose to give it because your sole purpose will be to keep me happy?”
She blinks, just for a second, as if she can feel the weight of this moment. As if she knows that this really is a deal with the devil. Her unborn child’s life, for her own.
“Deal,” She says in that strangled, awful voice.
Fucking deal. It’s like a chorus goes off in my head, like the entirety of heaven empties to be right here, celebrating beside me.
She is mine now, in every sense of the word.