Chapter 17
Haden
I’m worried about Emilia. I don’t like finding out that she’s had such debilitating symptoms once a month. She needs to see a doctor. Maybe something is wrong.
I get caught up organizing Mike and two other men from town who are going to work on renovations.
I’m grateful that Gretchen recommended them and Brody arranged their hire before I arrived.
This way, we’re not wasting valuable time.
I’d rather hit the ground running, especially now that I know there’s a substantial fire hazard.
I’ve also learned that these men and others have worked here before. In recent years, Old Man Wilde fired nearly everyone. He didn’t think he needed the help. He was wrong, but the guy was ninety-five. He probably wasn’t playing with a full deck by the time he died.
The important thing is that there are people in town who need jobs and know this mansion better than anyone living in it.
It’s nearly noon before Emilia texts me to let me know she’s going to lie down.
Everyone is on task, so I let Brody know I’m going to check on her and head for her room.
That’s where I find her on her knees, leaning over the toilet, vomiting. I go into a panic. Vomiting? What the absolute fuck? She didn’t mention this.
I rush toward her, grateful that I braided her hair this morning. If I hadn’t, it would be dangling in the toilet. The first thing I do is wet a washcloth. And then I squat down next to my girl, gently setting a hand on the back of her neck.
She’s breathing heavily. “It’s okay. I’m done.” She spits into the toilet a few times before giving me a wan smile. “I was hoping you would miss this part. But you never miss anything.”
I wipe her face. “Never, baby. I’ll never miss anything. Do you also vomit like this every month?”
“Yeah. But just once. I’m done. I promise. And I feel better. Now I just need drugs and my heating pad.”
When she tries to stand, I help her to her feet. She’s no longer wearing the sweatshirt or her shoes, but otherwise, she’s dressed like she was this morning.
She points toward the sink. “Toothpaste.”
I fix her toothbrush for her, feeling fucking helpless. My heart is racing. How am I going to manage to hold my girl through morning sickness and childbirth? I hate to see her suffering. I’m about to call a surgeon and have her uterus removed this afternoon if it causes her this much distress.
After she brushes her teeth, she looks at me and chuckles. “You’re white. You’ll faint in the delivery room.”
“I think you’re right, baby. Jesus. I have a new respect for women, including my poor mother.”
She finds a pill bottle and shakes two tablets into her palm before filling a cup with water and downing them. “Bed. Rest. I’ll be right as rain in a few hours.”
It doesn’t seem like it, but she knows her body better than I do. I want to know, though. If my woman is going to go through shit, I want to understand and support her. The reason she’s enduring even this is for me. Without her monthly ordeal, she wouldn’t be able to bear our children.
Now more than ever, I want to get her pregnant. Maybe it’s irrational, but surely she would suffer less while she’s carrying my baby.
I’m probably delusional.
I hold her arm as she makes her way to the hot-pink-covered bed, surprised when she starts pulling off clothes. She strips down to her panties, even removing her bra. Without a care in the world of me seeing her, she climbs under the covers.
The heating pad is already plugged in and lying next to her. All she has to do is turn it on, curl up onto her side, and hug it against her belly.
Fuck, I feel helpless. I’m afraid to touch her. But I’m relieved when she relaxes her body and breathes easier. “I’m going to be fine, Haden,” she whispers. “I’m a girl. We do this. I promise. Give me a few hours.”
I sit next to her and put a hand on her hip. “Don’t you need to, uh, check your pad or something? Change it?”
She smiles against the pillow, not looking at me. “No. Trust me. I will know. You don’t want to see that. Go do manly things.”
Suddenly, manly things seem lame compared to what women go through. “Will you text me when you need to go to the bathroom so I can help?”
“No. But I will get a gun license and shoot you if you don’t let me rest for a few hours.” Her voice is soft. Almost humorous. But she’s partially serious.
“Okay, baby.” I bend over and kiss her temple. Her phone is on the nightstand, but I move it so she can reach it. “Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“I’ll check on you.”
“Nope. You’ll wait until I text you. If you keep barging in here, you’ll wake me up. Let me rest.”
Shit. I hate this. But I will do it. For her. I kiss her again before closing the blinds and turning off the lights. As I leave the room, I quietly grab the clothes hamper and take it with me.
When I step into the hall, I run into Ryder.
He frowns. “Everything okay? You look stressed.”
I run a hand down my face and groan. “I had no idea how hard it was to be a woman. Jesus.”
He chuckles and pats my shoulder. “Wait until she’s pregnant. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. We don’t give women enough credit for what they do to keep our species alive.”
We certainly do not. Emilia deserves a trophy. I silently vow to shower her with flowers, candy, and date nights for the rest of our lives. She deserves to feel appreciated. She hasn’t had a single one of my babies yet, and already I feel indebted to her.