11. Cassie #2
The depth of his thrusts became rapid, frenzied.
He fucked me like I belonged to him, because I did.
In that moment, the tiny part of myself that had been holding me back disintegrated.
I’d always treated relationships like projects, goals, and challenges.
Like moving on to a better challenge when I got bored, staying until the novelty had worn off, and my feelings had changed.
With Roman, it wasn’t a challenge. It was my future, and I embraced it with a ferocity that should’ve terrified me.
"Don’t you ever leave me," he gasped against my mouth, feeling how I was about to unravel.
I knew he wanted to claim me, but the way he said those words, he sounded like they were coming from a place of vulnerability.
Of honest wanting, desperate desire. I would stay by his side, and we both knew it.
It was then that I fell apart.
A shattered moan escaped from my lips, spilling into his, as the pleasure mounted to a breaking point.
The explosion within me was the loudest I’d ever experienced, like everything inside me had transformed into glittering, beautiful fireworks as the release overwhelmed me.
My entire body contorted, shuddering violently against him.
My orgasm triggered his. The way my body milked him, squeezed his cock, tempted him, it was apparently too much. His stuttered groan was followed by a violent climax as he emptied himself inside me. Gasping, I gripped his shoulders, watching his face as pleasure transformed him.
As the last shudders rippled through me, I reached up, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone, leaving the softest kiss on his lips.
And I knew I would never leave him. Not if it killed me.
And that was the problem.
Because now, surviving Roman might be the hardest part.
I woke to darkness and the immediate, overwhelming need to vomit.
My stomach rolled violently as I bolted upright in the massive bed, Roman’s arm falling away from where it had been wrapped around my waist. The Egyptian cotton sheets that had felt like luxury moments before now clung to my sweat-dampened skin like prison shackles.
"Fuck," I whispered, pressing a hand to my mouth as another wave of nausea crashed over me.
Roman stirred beside me, his voice thick with sleep. "Cassie? What’s wrong?"
I couldn’t answer. Could barely think past the bile rising in my throat. I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaky as I rushed toward the en-suite bathroom. The marble floor was shockingly cold against my bare feet, but I barely registered it as I collapsed in front of the toilet.
Nothing came up. Just dry heaves that left me gasping and trembling, my forehead pressed against the cool porcelain while my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Baby, talk to me." Roman’s voice was closer now, concerned but careful. I could hear him moving around the bedroom, probably putting on clothes.
I tried to speak, but another wave hit me, this one worse than the last. My hands shook as I gripped the edges of the toilet seat, trying to steady myself against the rolling sensation in my stomach.
This wasn’t normal. I’d felt off yesterday too—queasy during the car ride, lightheaded when we’d stood too quickly after dinner. I’d blamed it on stress, on the adrenaline of everything that had happened in Roman’s world over the past few days.
But sitting there on the bathroom floor, cold sweat beading on my forehead as my body rebelled against something I couldn’t identify, a terrible possibility took shape in my mind.
When was my last period?
The thought hit me like a physical blow, stealing what little breath I had left.
I tried to remember, counting back through the weeks, but everything blurred together.
The past month had been such a whirlwind of work and Roman and life-changing revelations that I hadn’t been paying attention to my body’s rhythms.
But now that I thought about it...
"Cassie." Roman appeared in the doorway, his hair disheveled from sleep, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs. Even through my panic, I noticed the way the light from the bedroom caught the tattoos across his chest, the concern etched into his features. "What’s happening?"
I opened my mouth to tell him it was nothing, just something I ate, but the lie stuck in my throat. Because suddenly, with terrifying clarity, I knew exactly what was happening.
The missed period. The nausea. The way my breasts had been more sensitive lately, the exhaustion that went bone-deep no matter how much sleep I got.
My hand moved unconsciously to my stomach, pressing against the flat plane of my abdomen as if I could somehow confirm or deny what my body was telling me.
"Oh shit," I breathed, the words barely audible.
Fortunately, Roman hadn’t heard them. Those blue eyes regarded me with concern and worry, cataloging every detail—my pale face, my shaking hands, the way I was hugging the toilet.
Then Roman was moving, crossing the bathroom in two strides to kneel beside me on the cold marble. His hands were gentle as they framed my face, tilting my head up to meet his eyes.
"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.
The simple question shattered what was left of my composure. I hadn’t expected him to be so gentle.
"I think..." I swallowed hard, my throat tight with emotions I couldn’t name. "I ate something bad."
Roman’s jaw clenched, but his touch remained gentle. "I’ll have a word with the chef."
"I’m sure it’s nothing..." I trailed off, heat flooding my cheeks despite everything. "Just a coincidence."
He nodded once, sharp and decisive, like he was filing away evidence. "I’ll let it slide this time."
"Roman, I?—"
"I can’t be seen going soft," he told me, but his voice wasn’t sharp anymore. "It’s the only way to make sure my people respect me."
"Okay," I whispered, leaning into his touch.
Roman pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before standing. "I’ll get help. Get someone here to help you."
"I’m fine?—"
"You’re not." His voice carried a note of command that made my pulse spike. "You need help. And you need to rest. That’s an order, Cassie."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. But as Roman disappeared back into the bedroom, already reaching for his clothes, one thought echoed in my mind with crystal clarity.
If I really were pregnant—if Roman’s child was growing inside me—everything would change, not just for us, but for everyone in his world. A baby would make me more than just his convenient wife. It would make me family in a way that couldn’t be undone or negotiated away.
It would make me a target.
And Roman Creed’s unborn child would be the most valuable, and most vulnerable, asset in a war I was only beginning to understand.
Oh shit, indeed.