Chapter Thirty-Six
Soft flutters along my shoulder disturb my slumber. I stir, trying to move away from the ticklish sensation, but it doesn’t go away. My eyes start to crack open sleepily as I reach up a hand to scratch at my shoulder, but a hand intercepts my wrist.
My eyes snap open, and I suck in a sharp breath. Killian’s dark, smoky scent fills my nostrils, and something perversely pleasant sparks inside my chest. A single glance toward the window reveals it’s evening. I must’ve fallen asleep after my panic attack over being pregnant.
I won’t be with child for much longer. I’d certainly never subject an innocent baby to the likes of Killian, and I won’t subject myself to young motherhood on his account.
I don’t have the stability, the partnership, or frankly, the desire for kids.
At some point in the future? Yes. Right now, when my career is blossoming and my focus is on surviving my last two days with Killian? Certainly not.
“Took a nap?” Killian murmurs, nipping my ear.
“I guess so.” My voice is roughened with sleep. “What time is it?”
“8p.m. I made us 9p.m. reservations at a local restaurant. It has three Michelin stars and a highly regarded team of chefs.”
“I’d prefer to keep our public outings to a minimum,” I yawn, burrowing deeper into the blankets. Christ, I’m exhausted. No matter how much I sleep, I’m still tired.
“Why?”
Is he really wanting to go over this again? When I roll to my back to face him, I see genuine curiosity in his expression.
“Several reasons. Would you like to hear all of them?”
He nods, eyes dropping to my lips.
“Public perception, my job, my life, and the fact that I’d rather not have people whispering that I’ve fucked my way to the top, seduced you, or any of the nonsense that’ll be said behind my back if people find out about us.”
Killian smiles a little, as if my problems are a source of vague amusement. “You didn’t seduce me; I seduced you.”
My eyes slide closed again. “You didn’t seduce me—you blackmailed me. There’s a difference.”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed our arrangement,” Killian says mildly. “We’ve been over this.”
“So let's not go over it again. Regardless of who seduced who, I’ll be painted as the bad guy.” A bitter smile forms on my lips. “Women are always the ones faulted, and it doesn’t help that you’re a billionaire and I’m a nobody. The optics suck.”
Killian gives my ass a slap; lighter than usual, but still sharp enough to get my attention and wake me up.
“We’re going to the restaurant. Whether you’re showered and dressed appropriately is up to you, but attendance isn’t optional.”
Fucking. Prick.
I chant endure under my breath as I shower alone. Part of me feels a little deflated at going through the motions of washing myself alone—Killian has made a point to shower with me whenever he’s at the hotel this last week.
But the distance is good. It helps me clear my mind, and it gives me time to think and categorize my priorities.
The highest on the list is visiting my gynecologist and taking care of my condition. Equally as important is finishing the exposé and talking to Tommy, ensuring he’s prepped and ready to release it if the need arises.
I desperately hope the need won’t arise. I pray that the threat of the exposé and evidence of its existence will be enough to deter Killian, and I think it will, but I have no way of knowing.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Killian sits on the bed, wearing a tuxedo complete with a perfect bowtie.
Next to him is a dress—a new dress, one I hadn’t selected from the options at our first hotel. It’s black and embellished with rhinestones—no, probably crystals, knowing Killian’s tastes.
“Ten minutes,” he tells me, running his eyes down my damp body.
I take the threat seriously, knowing that Killian will drag me out in only a towel just to prove a point.
My reputation doesn’t mean to him what it means to me.
He’s taken me out publicly before—I suspect to build a trail of witnesses to testify against me should I ever accuse him of anything.
There are countless waiters who can attest to him treating me like a date, and me reciprocating, even if reluctantly.
With no other option, I take the dress into the bathroom and pull it on. It’s beautiful; off the shoulder, tight bodice, flowing skirt encrusted in jewels that mimic a night’s sky. I feel like I’m wearing the stars on my skin.
For all his faults—and there are many faults—Killian knows good clothes. And food, and travel. He’s an expert in the realm of luxury.
“Stunning,” he murmurs when I emerge once more. “Albeit a little tired. Is the jetlag still clinging to you?”
No, the parasite you put inside me is sucking my vitality and energy.
As soon as I have the thought, guilt follows it. I might not be host to the cell-cluster for long, but there’s no sense in hating the idea of a baby just based on my relationship to its father.
“I guess so,” I say quietly. Killian rises, offering me his hand. Too tired to argue, I take it, and he folds it into the crook of his arm.
The drive to the restaurant is short. I stay quiet, gazing out the window, while Killian answers emails on his phone. I’m already looking forward to tumbling back into bed and going back to sleep.
Locke eyes me through the rearview mirror a few times too many, which would make me nervous if I wasn’t already lost to a mixture of chronic stress and exhaustion.
The restaurant is beautiful, romantic, and inherently intimate.
Patrons are quieter here than they are in America, speaking to each other in soft tones.
The floors are a rustic but even cobblestone, and the tables are covered in white cloths decorated with rose petals.
An orchestra plays music in the corner of the room.
“It’s a tasting menu,” Killian explains as we settle at a table. “Any food preferences I should pass onto the head chef?” he asks me.
I slide him a sideways glance. “Are you on speaking terms with the chef here?”
“He’ll appreciate any visit I decide to grace him with,” Killian replies, radiating infuriating arrogance.
I shake my head. “No. Since when do you care about my food preferences?”
He pauses in lifting his glass of water to his lips. Just for a moment, but long enough to make me nervous. “I always have. You’ve been feeling queasy recently, so I figured I’d touch base. Do you not appreciate the courtesy?”
“I don’t require the courtesy. We’re parting ways on Monday.”
Killian’s only response to that is a smile that makes me nervous.
We eat dinner mostly in silence, only making slight segues of small talk here and there. I reply when he asks me something—mainly to avoid pissing him off, since I’ll be sharing a bed with him tonight—but I don’t engage or start any conversations.
I expect the silence to be tense, but it isn’t. In fact, it’s oddly comfortable. My body seems to have grown accustomed to Killian’s presence, even while my mind reels and rebels.
When the dessert course arrives, Killian finally strikes up conversation again. “How was your day?”
The question, though innocuous, makes me nervous. I glance at him over the rim of my water glass. Since I never drink wine around Killian anymore, sticking to water shouldn’t raise his alarm bells.
He can’t know. It’s just a polite question. I got rid of all of the evidence.
“Fine,” I reply carefully.
Killian nods, spooning some of the decadent truffle cake. “Locke told me you stopped by a pharmacy. Are you feeling unwell?”
My stomach flips over, but I manage to keep my expression clear. “I’m fine, thank you. I just picked up shampoo—the one you got me has been irritating my scalp.”
Killian sets down his spoon and turns to gaze at me fully. The weight of his stare is too much to bear; I don’t dare look up from my plate to meet it.
“Lyra,” he says slowly. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
He can’t know. He can’t know. He can’t—
I force myself to look up and meet his eyes. If I cower, it’ll make him suspicious. He’s just testing me because I went out on my own—that’s all.
“Not as far as I’m aware,” I hedge.
He tilts his head to the side. “Are you certain?”
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fear makes my stomach drop, and churns the four-course dinner I just ate.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Killian braces his elbows on the table. “Are you going to ask me about my day?”
I swallow. “How was your day?”
“Quite frustrating at first, though it improved in the evening,” he says. “Would you like to know why?”
No. “Of course. Hearing about your daily life is what gets me out of bed in the morning,” I snark.
He smiles. “Well, a few things. One of them is regarding your book.”
I blink, confused. My book? “What about it?” Defensiveness rises up inside me. “I finished it, as you requested. Sent it to you, as requested. That project is done, and you can’t punish me for any wrongdoings, because I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“The project is far from done, though you’re right that you haven’t rebelled and earned my wrath.
I sent your book to a contact of mine who works in publishing.
She’s an acquisitions editor at one of the big five.
I simply wanted her opinion on your work…
and she loved it.” His lips stretch into a smile.
“She anticipates that it’ll sell for quite a lot of money. ”
I blink, taken aback. He did… what? He sent my book to an editor at a publishing house?
That’s a favor I did not ask for, and am loathe to pay for, but it’s also almost…
kind. Killian has never minced words in regards to my novel, but he’s not unnecessarily cruel, either, and I care about his opinion more than I should.
Apparently, he thought highly enough of my book to send it up the foodchain.
“You’ll need to acquire a literary agent, but she made a few suggestions,” Killian says. “She was very enthusiastic, Lyra.” His lips stretch into a smile. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
Excitement rises in my chest, making my limbs tingle and fingers itch with the need to get back to a keyboard.
I’m so happy—albeit cautiously so—that I don’t even call Killian on the odd term of endearment.
“What’s the name of your contact?” I ask. “Who does she work for?”
“Aisha Row,” he responds, then says the name of a publishing house that makes my eyes bulge. It’s one of the big five, and more, it’s known for giving out massive advances to select debut authors.
“I… don’t know what to say,” I murmur. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. That wasn’t the only pleasant surprise I got today.” Killian reaches into his inner jacket pocket, and my stomach flips again, sending a violent wave of nausea over my body.
What he pulls out makes my heart skip three beats.
It’s a pregnancy test. One of the ones I took earlier. He slides it across the table to me, nestling it right by my plate. I nearly choke on my next breath.
He knows. He knows. He knows, and he’s not saying anything—just staring at me unblinkingly. I don’t have the strength to meet his eyes. It feels like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
Silence descends over us, tense and clawing, like the charge in the air before a lightning storm.
“When were you planning on telling me about this?” he asks, his voice perversely calm and composed.
My hands tremble from fear. I fold them on my lap. “Never. I’ll take care of it as soon as we get back to the states. I already have an appointment—”
“You will do no such thing,” Killian says, sharply enough to startle me. “I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling you an appointment with the best OBGYN in the city—”
“I am not keeping it!” I hiss.
“You are,” he responds, infuriatingly calm and sure of himself. “Naturally, I can’t allow you to give birth to a bastard, so we’ll need to marry. We can announce our engagement at my next event—I have a gala on Monday night. You’ll come as my date.”
I can scarcely process what he’s saying. Having a kid with him? Getting engaged and married to him?
No. No, he can’t. What he’s saying isn’t just insane, it’s absurd.
“Killian,” I whisper. Tears gather in my eyes. “You—you can’t do this to me. We had a deal—”
“Deals change,” he says mildly. “Fate intervened before I had to. Perhaps there is something to the silly notion of destiny, after all. Whether it be biology or a higher power, something stepped in to make you pregnant with my heir. I won’t put a stop to that, and neither will you.
We’ll adjust to accommodate this change to our lives.
” He’s saying we. We, as in plural. Him and me, together.
The first tear falls down my cheek, quickly followed by the second. A soft sob escapes my lips, and I cover a hand with my mouth, looking down at my lap.
This can’t be happening to me. This cannot be happening to me. This has to be some sort of twisted, cruel dream—I’ll wake up any moment now.
“Lyra,” Killian says softly. “Don’t be upset.” He stands and rounds the table, crouching beside me. I turn away from him, sobbing again when he slides a hand over my stomach, resting it over the flat of my belly.
The flat expanse of skin that, if he gets his way, will start to swell with his spawn.
“This is a good thing—a beautiful thing. We made a life together.” He kisses my cheek, and I flinch violently. “And we will raise it together. I’ll make you happy—you’ll see.”
“You’re not capable of making me anything but miserable.” The words are a pitiful whine. He kisses me again; I flinch even harder, and his hand on my stomach tightens.
“Give it time,” he says gently. “And eat up. You and our baby need the energy.”
His words are the final nail sliding into my coffin.