Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Priscilla
Two weeks since Woodrow put a ring on my finger.
Two months since he rescued me in that parking lot and brought me to this cabin.
Two months since my life transformed from lonely, predictable existence to something wild and passionate and completely unexpected.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the plastic stick in my hand, the two pink lines unmistakable even as tears blur my vision.
Pregnant. I'm pregnant with Woodrow's child.
All that talk about breeding me, filling me with his seed, putting his baby in me—it wasn't just dirty talk.
It worked. His virile, possessive body has claimed mine in the most primal, permanent way possible.
And I'm terrified. Not of the pregnancy, not of the baby growing inside me.
I'm terrified of how much I want this. Of how right it feels.
Of how completely I've surrendered to the life he's created for us.
The bathroom door feels miles away, though it's only a few steps.
Beyond it, Woodrow is chopping wood for the fireplace—a task he insists on doing himself despite having the money to buy pre-cut cords by the truckload.
"Need to keep my skills sharp," he told me once.
"Need to stay strong to protect what's mine. "
What's his. Me. And now, our baby.
The thought sends a fresh wave of tears down my cheeks, but they're happy tears. Overwhelmed tears. I press a trembling hand to my still-flat stomach, trying to comprehend that a new life is growing there. A life created from our passion, our obsession, our love.
So much has changed since those first terrifying days.
We moved out of the cabin two weeks after his proposal, to a larger house on fifty acres of land.
Still remote, still defensible—Woodrow will never compromise on security—but with more space.
Room to grow, he said. Room for a family.
As if he knew, somehow, what was already happening inside me.
I've started writing again too, something I hadn't done since college.
Romance novels, just like I always dreamed.
Woodrow set up an office for me, complete with a view of the mountains and bookshelves filled with classics and contemporary romance alike.
"You have stories to tell," he said, kissing the top of my head. "And I want to hear every one."
It's strange how quickly I've adapted to this new life. How natural it feels to wake up beside him every morning, to fall asleep in his arms every night. How right it feels when he calls me his little girl, when he takes control in the bedroom, when he makes decisions with my protection in mind.
The old Priscilla—the one who kept everyone at arm's length, who valued her independence above all else—would be horrified. But that Priscilla was lonely. Empty. Unfulfilled. This Priscilla is loved. Protected. Complete.
And now, pregnant.
I look down at the test again, the two pink lines still boldly declaring my new reality.
I'd suspected for a few days now—my period is two weeks late, my breasts tender, unexplained waves of nausea in the mornings.
But seeing the confirmation in my hand makes it real in a way mere suspicion couldn't.
I take a deep breath, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. Time to tell him. Time to see if all his talk about breeding me, about wanting me round with his child, was more than just heat-of-the-moment dirty talk.
My legs are shaky as I stand, my heart pounding against my ribs as I open the bathroom door. I can hear the rhythmic thunk of the axe splitting wood outside, can picture Woodrow's powerful body as he works, muscles rippling beneath his thin t-shirt despite the autumn chill.
I make my way through our bedroom, down the stairs, through the living room with its massive stone fireplace—currently cold, awaiting the wood he's chopping—and out onto the back porch.
He senses me immediately, the way he always does. His head turns, eyes finding mine with unerring precision across the yard. He pauses mid-swing, something in my expression making him lower the axe and start toward me.
"What's wrong?" he asks, closing the distance between us in long strides, concern etched on his features. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, tears threatening again. How do I tell him? What if he's not ready? What if—
"Priscilla." His hands cup my face, tilting it up to meet his intense gaze. "Tell me what's wrong. Now."
The command in his voice steadies me, grounds me the way it always does. I reach into the pocket of my cardigan, pulling out the pregnancy test, holding it up between us.
"I'm pregnant," I whisper, watching his face carefully for his reaction. "We're going to have a baby."
For a long moment, he just stares at the little plastic stick, his expression completely unreadable. Then, slowly, his eyes lift to meet mine, and what I see there takes my breath away. Wonder. Joy. Fierce, possessive pride.
"Mine," he growls, one large hand moving to cover my still-flat stomach. "My baby. Growing inside you."
A sob of relief escapes me. "You're happy? You want this?"
"Happy?" He lifts me off my feet in a crushing embrace, spinning me in a circle that makes me dizzy. "Fucking ecstatic. You're carrying my child, Priscilla. Our child.”
When he sets me down, his hands are gentle, almost reverent as they frame my face. "How are you feeling? Any sickness? Pain? Discomfort?"
I laugh through my tears at his sudden shift to protective concern. "Some nausea in the mornings. Tired. Emotional, obviously." I gesture to my tear-streaked face. "But good. Happy."
He kisses me then, so tender it makes my heart ache. Not the usual consuming passion, but something softer, deeper. When he pulls back, his thumbs wipe away my tears, his eyes searching mine.
"Thank you," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "For giving me this. For giving me everything."
"Pretty sure you had something to do with it too," I tease, relieved beyond words at his reaction. "All that talk about breeding me wasn't just talk, apparently."
A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face. "Always meant every word," he assures me. Then, without warning, he scoops me into his arms, carrying me back toward the house. "And now I need to worship the mother of my child properly."
He carries me upstairs to our bedroom, laying me on the king-sized bed with surprising gentleness. The look in his eyes as he gazes down at me is one I've never seen before—still possessive, still intense, but with an added layer of reverence.
"My perfect little girl," he murmurs, his hands going to the hem of my sweater, pushing it up to expose my stomach. He kneels beside the bed, pressing his lips to the soft skin there, just below my navel. "Carrying my baby. So fucking perfect."
The tenderness of the gesture brings fresh tears to my eyes. This man—this dangerous, possessive, violent man—treating my body like a temple because it houses his child. Our child.
He undresses me slowly, reverently, pressing kisses to each newly exposed inch of skin. When I'm naked beneath him, he stands to remove his own clothes, his eyes never leaving my body.
"So beautiful," he says, joining me on the bed, his large frame making the mattress dip beneath his weight. "Going to be even more beautiful as our baby grows inside you. Can't wait to see you swollen with my child."
His hands roam my body, lingering on my breasts—already slightly fuller, more sensitive than before—before traveling down to my stomach again. He lowers his head, pressing another kiss just below my navel.
"My son or daughter is in there," he says with wonder, looking up at me with an expression so vulnerable it makes my throat tight. "Part of me. Part of you. Perfect."
I reach for him, drawing him up to kiss me properly. "I love you," I whisper against his lips. "So much."
"Love you more," he responds, positioning himself between my thighs. "Going to show you just how much."
He enters me slowly, carefully, as if I've become fragile overnight. The feeling of him filling me—so familiar now, yet never routine—draws a soft moan from my lips.
"That's it," he encourages, establishing a gentle rhythm. "Take Daddy's cock, little girl. So perfect for me. So full of my baby already."
His words, the reverent tone, the careful way he moves within me—it's all so different from our usual passionate couplings. No less intense, but infused with a tenderness that brings tears to my eyes yet again.
"So emotional," he teases gently, kissing away my tears. "My pregnant little girl. Hormones already getting to you?"
I laugh through the tears. "Must be," I agree, wrapping my legs around his waist, urging him deeper. "Or maybe I'm just happy."
"You should be happy," he tells me, increasing his pace slightly, hitting that spot inside me that makes me see stars. "You're carrying the most precious thing in the world. Our baby. The beginning of our family."
The thought—our family—sends a wave of emotion through me so powerful it's almost painful. This man, who stalked me, kidnapped me, killed for me, is now the father of my child. The center of my world. My protector, my lover, my everything.
"Woodrow," I gasp, feeling my release approaching as his skilled fingers find my clit, circling it with perfect pressure. "I'm close."
"Come for me," he encourages, his thrusts deepening but remaining gentle. "Let me feel you come around my cock while you're full of my baby."
My orgasm washes over me in gentle waves, not the earth-shattering explosion I'm used to with him, but something softer, warmer, no less powerful for its gentleness. I clutch at his shoulders, my inner walls pulsing around him, drawing him deeper.
He follows me over the edge with a groan of my name, his release flooding me, adding to what's already taken root inside my womb. Even in this tender moment, something primal in him needs to mark me, claim me, fill me.
Afterward, he holds me close, one large hand splayed protectively over my stomach. "I'll take care of you both," he promises, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Keep you safe. Provide for you. Love you both beyond reason."
I believe him. This man, who's shown the depths of his obsession, his protection, his love, will be the most devoted father imaginable. Fierce. Protective. Adoring.
"I know you will," I tell him, placing my hand over his on my stomach. "That's why I'm not afraid. Why I want this so much."
"My perfect little family," he murmurs, his voice heavy with satisfaction and something like awe. "Everything I never knew I needed. Everything I'll die protecting."
As I drift toward sleep in his arms, his hand still protectively covering our growing child, I can't help but marvel at the strange path that led me here.
From lonely bookstore employee to cherished, protected, pregnant fiancée in the span of two months.
From isolation to belonging. From emptiness to completion.
It's not the life I planned. Not the life I ever imagined for myself.
It's so much better.