Chapter Sixteen - Simon
The doctor’s words hang in the air, carving the world into before and after.
“You’re pregnant.”
That’s it—three syllables, barely more than a breath. But the instant they leave his mouth, something hardens inside me. I go from ice to iron. Every muscle tenses, my mind cutting through the haze of shock with surgical clarity. There’s a pulse at my temple, steady as a ticking bomb.
Eden sits beside me on the exam table, shoulders rigid, gaze fixed on the floor.
Her hand trembles in her lap. The doctor glances at me, then back at her, measuring his words.
I don’t like the way his eyes linger. I don’t like the way he leans in—professional, clinical, but close enough to touch her.
He says something about weeks, about scheduling, about next steps.
It’s all white noise. I tune out everything but the possibility of threat.
The doctor’s hand moves to check Eden’s pulse, just two fingers against her wrist, but it sets my teeth on edge.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up—shifting closer, standing taller, blocking his path without a word.
She’s not just mine now. She’s carrying my child. My legacy. My future written in blood and bone.
It’s a primal, violent instinct, one I’ve learned to leash my entire life. Now it surges to the surface, raw and immediate. I want to drag her away from everyone in this sterile, too-bright office. I want to put her somewhere safe, somewhere no one can reach.
The doctor’s voice drifts back in. “Congratulations,” he says, too cheerful, too familiar.
I glare. He gets the message, clearing his throat and shuffling the paperwork.
My hand finds the small of Eden’s back, steadying her as she slips off the table.
She’s pale, shock-dazed, and her steps are unsteady.
I guide her out, one palm braced between her shoulder blades, close enough to catch her if she stumbles.
Every person we pass in the hall—nurses, patients, even the old man shuffling past the elevator—feels like a risk. I size them up, measure their threat, calculate a dozen ways to get her out if something goes wrong.
No one gets too close.
In the car, she’s silent. Her fingers trace circles over her stomach, half conscious.
She keeps her eyes on the city outside, but I catch every little movement.
The deep inhale when the traffic swells.
The way her hand drifts over her belly and lingers there, like she’s not sure if she wants to touch or shield it.
I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other close to her thigh. The city is nothing but noise, a blur of horns and headlights. Every block feels hostile. I catch myself mapping exits, scoping for shadows, scanning faces on the sidewalk for a hint of recognition.
When we get home, I walk her upstairs, too aware of the men stationed at the end of the hall.
One of them—new, young, a little too eager—lets his gaze linger as we pass.
It’s not lascivious, not exactly. Maybe just curiosity.
Maybe he’s never seen me bring someone home like this, a woman with my mark on her.
It doesn’t matter. The urge to snap his neck flickers through me before I force it down.
Mine.
It echoes in my skull, a drumbeat that won’t quit.
Inside the apartment, the air is thick with silence. Eden sets her purse down, fingers fumbling with the clasp. She sways a little where she stands, as if her body hasn’t caught up to the reality yet.
I take her by the shoulders—gentle, but firm enough to remind her she’s not alone.
“Sit,” I say, and she does, dropping onto the couch with a barely suppressed shiver.
Her knuckles are white. She’s terrified.
Not of me, not really. Of the unknown swelling inside her, of the world that just got smaller and more dangerous all at once.
I crouch in front of her, one hand on her knee. She blinks down at me, searching my face for anger, for blame. She won’t find it. That surprises even me.
“I’ll take care of you,” I say. It’s not a promise; it’s a vow. “No one will touch you. No one will touch what’s mine.”
Something in her eyes flickers—fear, maybe, but also relief. She lets out a breath she’s been holding for hours. Her hand finds mine, tentative, cool.
I press my palm to her stomach, protective, reverent. I’ve killed for less than this. I’d raze the city for what’s growing inside her.
The next days pass in a blur of vigilance. My senses never settle. Every sigh she gives, every wince of discomfort, every time her fingers drift absently to her abdomen—I notice all of it.
She wakes up nauseous, and I’m at her side with water before she asks. She curls up on the couch, and I pile blankets on her, watching for shivers.
Dominance comes easy to me. Control is second nature. But this—this strange tenderness—feels like drowning. I hover, guiding her through doorways, scanning the apartment for invisible dangers. The urge to cage her is nearly unbearable. To lock her away from the world.
She’d hate that. She’d fight me, and I’d lose her even as I tried to protect her.
I’m a monster, and she knows it, but she doesn’t flinch when I pull her close. She lets me hold her. She lets me press my lips to her temple, breathe her in.
At night, when she’s curled against my chest, I can’t sleep. My hand rests over her stomach, as if I can protect her and the child from everything that wants to tear us apart—including myself.
She’s not just my weakness now. She’s my entire world.
I will burn anyone who tries to take her from me.
***
The next morning, Eden’s perched at the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched with exhaustion.
The city glimmers in slices through the window blinds, catching on the pale skin beneath her eyes.
She looks so small like this—bone-tired, washed thin by worry and too many sleepless nights.
I should look away, but I can’t. My world is reduced to the soft rise and fall of her chest, the faint tremble in her fingers as she rubs her thumb over her palm.
I cross the room in silence and kneel in front of her, careful, deliberate. My hand lifts, thumb tracing a gentle line along her cheek. For once I don’t grip or control or demand. I just… touch. She leans into it, subtle as a sigh, not flinching the way she did that first week.
“You should lie down,” I murmur.
She nods, silent, and lets me guide her back. I ease her onto the mattress and pull the blanket up, tucking it around her hips with more care than I thought myself capable of. The room settles into quiet.
I sit at her side, not touching now—just watching the tension slip from her face, the heaviness that overtakes her limbs as sleep claims her. Her breathing steadies, lips parted, lashes casting soft shadows.
The space between us is fragile, weighted with everything we haven’t said. She’s letting me in—inch by inch—without trust, maybe, but without fear. That’s new. That’s everything.
I watch her for a long time, tracing every plane of her face, the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair tumbles over the pillow. My hand hovers above her belly, aching to touch, to claim, but I don’t. Not now. Instead, I make myself still, holding the world at bay for as long as I can.
When I finally speak, my voice is low, meant for no one but her and the shadows.
“You’re not leaving me,” I whisper. “Not now. Not ever.”
The words sink into the silence, a vow I never meant to speak aloud. But it feels right. It feels inevitable.
She stirs, not quite waking, and turns toward me in her sleep. I watch over her as the hours bleed away, my promise echoing in the dark. She’s mine.