30. Karla
KARLA
Isat on the edge of my bathtub staring at the digital pregnancy stick like it was a bomb about to detonate.
My apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the overhead light and the drip…
drip… drip from the faucet I kept forgetting to call maintenance about.
The stupid little plastic test lay across my palms, and no matter how many times I blinked, it didn’t change.
Pregnant.
“How can I be pregnant?” I whispered to no one, because talking to myself felt safer than saying it out loud to Brayden before I knew how he’d react.
My heart thrummed so loudly it drowned out my thoughts. My fingers were cold, my cheeks were hot, and every inhale felt like dragging air through a straw.
Then his voice boomed through the apartment like a rescue siren. “Karla?”
Just hearing him—that gravelly, warm tone—made my chest ache.
“In here,” I called, quickly curling my fingers around the test like I could hide the truth with sheer willpower.
He cracked the bathroom door, only his head peeking in. “Can I come in?”
“Please.” The word came out shaky. Tears threatened again—I’d been holding them at bay for the last ten minutes. I wasn’t even sure if they were happy or terrified yet. Maybe both.
Brayden stepped in, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He sat on the bathmat in front of me like he was grounding himself on the only patch of carpet in the room. His knees brushed mine, and suddenly I felt like I could breathe again, even if only a little.
“What’s going on, babe? You had me worried sick.”
His eyes—soft, focused, that impossible blue that always felt like home—locked onto mine. Something in my chest snapped.
“Here.” I shoved the positive test into his hands. No buildup. No speech. Just raw honesty. The tears rolled anyway, hot and unstoppable.
He stared at the test. And stared. And stared. The seconds stretched until I felt like I might pass out from sheer anticipation.
Then, sudden and explosive, he shot to his feet and pulled me up with him like I weighed nothing. “This is the best news I could have ever gotten. You’re pregnant!”
His joy hit me like a tidal wave—loud, warm, overwhelming in the best way. Relief ripped through my body so fast my knees went weak and the tears turned into full-body sobs—but the happy kind, the kind that felt like unclenching a fist you didn’t know you’d been forming for years.
“I am so thankful you aren’t upset. I was so scared,” I stammered, the confession spilling out.
“How could I ever be upset about something as amazing as the fact that we’re going to have a baby?
I am going to be a father! This is incredible!
” he sang out. His arms collapsed around me and twirled me like we were in some chaotic rom-com montage.
I clung to him as he carried me into my bedroom, tossing us both onto the bed with the enthusiasm of a man who’d just won the Stanley Cup and found out his girlfriend liked lingerie at the same exact time.
“I have to call Myla!” he blurted, already grabbing for his phone.
I snatched it right out of his hand. “No. No one can know right now.”
His whole expression dropped—the giddy puppy energy evaporating into confused heartbreak.
“But…?” He gave me a literal puppy-dog face. On a six-foot-plus NHL player, it was both ridiculous and devastating.
“It’s too early,” I explained gently, brushing my thumb across his cheek. “Something could happen. But don’t worry. I’m a nurse. This little peanut is going to get the best care possible. I promise we’ll be able to tell everyone soon, okay?”
He nodded, though he looked like I’d told him Christmas was canceled. “Fine.”
Then his excitement came roaring back like he couldn’t physically contain it. He grabbed my shoulders, kissing me so hard my toes curled. “God, I fucking love you so much!”
“I love you too, Daddy.” The word left my mouth before I could filter it, and the second it hit the air… oh God. It felt half hilarious, half erotic, and very, very real.
Brayden froze for a second. Then a wicked slow grin spread across his face.
“That has a nice ring to it.” His voice dropped lower, darker—that tone he saved for late nights and locked doors. “Does this mean I’m going to have to go easy on you?”
He was already tugging at my clothes, then his own, like the positive test had activated some primal caveman switch.
I nipped at his neck. “I don’t think you’ll be tying me up or pulling the whips out anytime soon, but we can still have sex. I’m not injured or anything.”
That earned a growl—a deep, appreciative one.
In the months we’d been together, we’d figured each other out in a way I could have never predicted.
Brayden, with all his size and presence and quiet dominance, had somehow turned into the safest place I’d ever known.
The trust we built wasn’t some lightning bolt moment—it was slow, intentional, patient.
Beautiful in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with romance novels and everything to do with showing up for one another even when it was messy.
“Tell me what you want, babe,” Brayden whispered, lips brushing my ear.
“You’re going to lick my cunt until I come,” I ordered, my voice stronger than I felt, “and use my wetness to lube yourself up, then get behind me and fuck me in the ass.”
Saying it out loud sent heat racing across my skin.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He eased me to the edge of the bed, sinking to his knees. His lips trailed from my knee down to my inner thigh, sending sparks dancing across my nerves. When he flattened his tongue against my clit, my whole body bowed off the mattress.
His nails dug into my thighs, anchoring me. His mouth was slow and thorough—that torturous, incredible rhythm he knew would unravel me. He pulled back just enough to speak against me, his breath hot.
“God, Karla, you’re so wet already.”
But the knot tightening in my stomach wasn’t desire anymore. Something flipped—fast. Violent.
“Oh fuck!” I choked out, scrambling up.
I practically shoved him aside as I sprinted for the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before everything I’d eaten decided to make a dramatic return.
Brayden slid in behind me instantly, dropping to the tile floor without hesitation. He pressed a cold washcloth to the back of my neck.
“Can I do anything to help?” he asked softly.
I spit, wiped my mouth, and rested my forehead on the toilet seat like it was a spa pillow. “Sorry.”
“For what?” he murmured, brushing my cheek with the back of his fingers.
“How sexy is this?” I groaned.
He scooted closer, kissed my hairline. “Sweetheart, you’re pregnant. Doesn’t getting sick kind of come with the territory?”
“Yeah, but still.” I moved the cold compress to my forehead.
He watched me for a moment—tender, patient, so painfully loving I wanted to cry again.
“How about I order us a pizza,” he said, gentle and hopeful, “and we sit on the couch all night watching anything you want?”
I blinked. “Really? Anything?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was making a vow before a judge.
“Yes. Anything.”
Man, he really was happy about this baby. This man guarded the remote like it was a trophy he’d personally bled for. Sure, he let me pick things sometimes—sometimes—but he always had veto power if something was too sappy or too dramatic or too British.
He helped me off the floor, his big hands warm around my waist, and wrapped me in my favorite pink fluffy robe like I was fragile glass instead of a newly pregnant hormonal furnace with vomit breath.
“You just have to brush your teeth first.” He stuck his tongue out at me, grinning like an idiot, before heading back to the bedroom to get dressed.
And as I leaned on the bathroom counter, robe soft around me, toothbrush in hand, something inside me settled.
We were going to have a baby.
And I wasn’t scared anymore.
Not with him.