James 8
James
“You know he’s going to blame me for this, right?” I glance at Juliette out of the corner of my eye, then cross my arms as I survey the damage. “He’s going to say I didn’t do a good enough job anchoring it to the wall.”
“I know,” she says, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. I just—I swear, my brain hasn’t been the same these past couple of months. I keep forgetting how easily I can break things.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “You keep forgetting?”
The smile she’s been fighting finally breaks free, and she turns away as she laughs.
“I really do. Sometimes I even forget what I’m about to say as I’m saying it.
” She looks up, brightening. “Actually, I read that your brain shrinks during pregnancy, especially toward the end. Apparently it’s supposed to help you prepare for motherhood? Isn’t that fascinating?”
“No.”
She fights back another smile. “I think the gray matter is supposed to grow back.”
“Juliette.”
She clasps her hands under her belly, then gives me these big, innocent eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I sigh, studying the mess.
I’m anxious. Restless.
Allegedly, she was trying to put up some books on a floating shelf and accidentally tore the entire thing off the wall. The wall I’d recently painted.
Took the drywall with it.
Now there’s a nice big hole next to the window, dust and debris everywhere.
It’s more than a patch job, but I’m not bothered about the work.
It’s not a problem, just a process. Drying; sanding; drying; sanding.
I have my tools in the garage; we have leftover drywall.
No, I’m just trying to get out of my own head right now.
I’m still trying to stop worrying about Rosabelle; I’m still trying to shake off this lingering tension. Also, I’m kind of worried about Warner finding out about this situation.
I glance over at my sister-in-law.
Juliette is still bleeding. A little.
She insists she’s fine, that the sharp corner of a book nicked her forehead as it came down. She was so determined to prove it wasn’t a big deal that she wouldn’t even let me heal her. The problem is, I’m not sure Warner will see it that way.
This isn’t the first time she’s had an incident.
Just before she was put on bed rest, Juliette ripped off the oven door by accident. She was rushing and thought the food was going to burn, and when the door came off its hinges she was so shocked she almost dropped the scorching metal panel on herself.
She thought it was kind of funny.
I thought Warner was going to pass out.
“All right, where’s your scary husband?” I ask her. “Still at HQ?”
She nods. “He left hours ago.”
“Okay.” I consider the damage again. “Look, I can clean up the mess before I head out, but I’ll have to come back later to cut this piece out of the wall.
Until then, we can probably live with a temporary fix.
” I cross the room, grab a framed watercolor painting off the opposite wall, then hold it up over the hole, assessing the coverage.
I make a face.
“This might work for now,” I tell her, then turn to meet her eyes. “But I think it’s probably best if we don’t tell Warner what happened here.”
“I disagree.”
I stiffen at the sound of his voice, then turn slowly to face him.
Shit.
The main elevators leading down into the underground HQ are accessible from a secure access point in the center of The Waffle; we’re the only ones who have a private elevator in the house, the entrance of which is discreetly built into a wall in our living room.
I should’ve known Warner would come home to check on his wife before heading to Nazeera’s place.
I should’ve realized I wouldn’t hear him coming.
He’s now standing in the doorway, assessing the situation with unnerving calm. I’m guessing he hasn’t seen Juliette’s forehead yet, because—
“What happened?”
He crosses the room in quick strides, his panic betrayed only by the slight tightening of his body, the sudden tension in his voice. He takes her face in his hands and looks her over like she’s just been involved in a major car accident and might require facial reconstructive surgery.
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Really, I’m fine—”
“You’re not fine,” he says, his voice tight as he brushes his fingers over her cut. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?”
Something in my chest spasms.
I don’t even have the heart to roll my eyes at his overreaction, because, technically, he’s not overreacting.
Warner doesn’t exaggerate his emotional responses, not even when he’s about to murder you.
In fact, he tends to underreact to situations, burying his true feelings deep beneath a concrete exterior.
I’m pretty sure this is him trying to be casual right now.
This is him trying to stay calm and fight the very real impulse to carry his wife off into the sunset in search of a bandage.
It’s so sweet it makes me want to walk off a cliff.
I set down the painting with a sigh.
Meanwhile, Juliette smiles up at my brother like he’s some kind of stuffed animal. She draws one of his hands away from her face and presses a kiss to the center of his palm, and I’m sick to my stomach just being in the same room as all this tenderness.
I want this.
I want it so badly I could throw up. And the thing is, I might’ve had it. I’m still mad at Warner; I’m still pissed off about the situation with Rosabelle. I know it’s not technically his fault that she’s refusing to see me, but I have no one else to blame.
He sees her every day.
He talks to her every day, and he won’t say a word to me about it. He’s the one refusing to listen to my concerns. He’s the one who agreed to her terms. She might’ve issued the orders, but he’s the one who bought the brick to build this wall between us.
I’m trying to get a grip, I really am.
I’m trying not to let this pain eat me alive, but my brain isn’t helping. My brain is being a real asshole right now, pulling up memories, setting them to a soundtrack.
Rosabelle used to look at me like that. Rosabelle once kissed me like that. Kissed my chest.
Your heart, she’d said.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Pain detonates behind my ribs.
I’m about to head for the door just as my brother draws my attention with a light exhale, his shoulders releasing. I can practically feel some of the tension leave his body when his wife touches him.
“What happened?” he asks her again, softer now.
“Nothing,” Juliette says for the second time.
“Really. I was putting some books on a shelf and I accidentally”—she hesitates—“I kind of pulled the whole thing off the wall. The edge of a book hit my head on the way down. But I’m fine, I swear.
” She glances my way, flashing me a bracing smile. “James was helping.”
“Helping?” Warner echoes. “How is he helping if you’ve been injured? How is he helping if you were doing tasks by yourself? Did you even anchor the shelf to the wall when you put it up?”
This last question is directed at me, naturally.
I finally roll my eyes at him. Warner and I both know he’s asking a stupid question, but he just can’t help himself.
It doesn’t matter that Juliette can drive a fist through steel; it doesn’t matter that she could easily punch through my chest and rip out an organ; he’s really going to stand there and pretend this is a simple hardware issue.
I shoot him a look that tells him exactly how much of a dumbass I think he is, and then I nod toward the door. “I’ll let you two sort this out.”
“Wait,” he says to me.
I freeze.
“Tell the girls to get over here.”
“The girls?” I raise my eyebrows. Sonya and Sara. Our lead healers. “Bro, we don’t have to call the girls. I’m more than happy to heal her cut. In fact, I already offered, but she wouldn’t let me—”
Warner shakes his head, cutting me off. “The girls are supposed to come by today anyway,” he explains, then hesitates. “I’ve asked them to stay for the duration. Tell them to come now.”
“For the duration?” Juliette repeats, surprised. “You mean they’re going to stay at the house with us for the rest of the pregnancy?”
I’m still frozen in place.
I glance between Warner and Juliette, both a little rigid with tension, then at the open door like it might be my salvation. Clearly, the lovebirds didn’t have this conversation in advance.
“As a precaution,” Warner says. He draws his hand down his wife’s cheek, his eyes lingering at the cut on her forehead. “Just in case.”
“Aaron,” she says, her voice quieting to something like a whisper. “I know you’re worried, but we can’t ask the girls to stay here that long. They have full lives of their own. It might be another three weeks before I go into labor.”
I try to look away.
I really do.
I’m now inadvertently intruding on a private conversation, but I’ve also been issued an order, and I need to stick around long enough to know whether to see it through.
“It could be three weeks,” Warner says to her, swallowing. “But it could be next week, too. You’ve been having these new pains—”
“It’s normal pain,” she says, trying to smile. “I promise. They’re just early contractions.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing about your pregnancy has been normal,” he counters. “If there’s a complication, there might not be sufficient warning.”
She pulls back a little, looking up at him with obvious indecision. “You want them to stay here overnight? Every night? Even when you’re at home?”
Warner pulls her close, then presses a soft kiss to her cheek before lowering his voice, his lips at her ear.
“Please, love,” he whispers. “There’s so much going on right now.
Constant emergencies. My hours are unpredictable.
Nazeera’s hours are unpredictable. I can’t guarantee someone will be here all the time, and I need to know you won’t be alone. ”
She places a hand on his chest, her eyes going soft. “I’ll be okay,” she whispers back. “Really. I promise everything is going to be okay.”
Yikes.
This optimistic statement doesn’t appear to offer Warner any comfort. He takes a breath so sharp it seems to impale him.