11. Dusty
DUSTY
Six weeks later.
The smell of caramelized sugar and fresh cream puffs fills Damian's kitchen as I pipe the last rosette onto a row of éclairs. My hands move with practiced precision now, nothing like the clumsy attempts from weeks ago when I first started at Le Cordon Bleu's satellite program.
Footsteps echo down the hallway.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The pregnancy test sits beside the pastry tower, its two pink lines screaming louder than any confession I could voice.
"Little girl?" Damian's deep voice carries before he appears in the doorway, slate-gray eyes scanning the kitchen. "What are you?—"
He stops.
The entire marble island groans under plates of golden croissants, delicate mille-feuille with paper-thin layers, glossy tarte tatins that smell like autumn, and those éclairs I just finished. Professional-grade work. School-taught perfection.
"I made you something." My voice comes out smaller than intended.
Damian crosses to me in three strides, his massive frame making the spacious kitchen feel intimate. Sun-bronzed fingers trace the edge of a croissant, testing the lamination.
"These are..."
"From what the instructors taught me." I wipe my flour-dusted hands on my apron, the nervous habit betraying my carefully constructed composure. "I wanted to show you I'm learning. That I'm not wasting?—"
"Baby." His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up. "You could burn water and I'd still be proud of you."
Heat floods my cheeks.
"But these?" He picks up an éclair, examining the mirror-smooth chocolate glaze. "These are extraordinary."
I nibble my lower lip, then gesture to the pregnancy test.
"There's something else."
Damian's gaze follows my trembling hand. He goes utterly still, that predatory stillness that precedes either violence or overwhelming emotion. The éclair hovers forgotten between us.
"Dusty."
"I'm pregnant." The words tumble out in a rush. "Six weeks, the doctor confirmed yesterday, and I know we talked about it happening but I didn't think it would be so fast, and?—"
He drops the pastry.
It lands with a soft thunk against the marble, chocolate splattering, but neither of us looks down. Damian's hands frame my face, slate-gray eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Say it again."
"I'm pregnant. We're having a baby."
A sound rumbles from his chest—half laugh, half growl—before he lifts me onto the counter in one fluid motion. Pastries scatter. My thighs part automatically as he steps between them, and his forehead presses against mine.
"My baby is having a baby of her own."
The possessive wonder in his voice makes my eyes sting.
"I wanted to tell you with something special. Something that showed I'm not just..." I gesture vaguely at myself. "That I'm building what you're giving me. The school, the life, the?—"
"Stop." His thumb brushes my lips. "You've always been everything. But this?"
His palm splays across my still-flat stomach, warm and reverent.
"This is us. Everything we are, everything we're becoming." His voice drops to that commanding rumble that turns my insides liquid. "You're carrying our child, little girl. Do you understand what that means?"
I nod, though tears blur my vision.
"It means I'm never letting either of you out of my sight." His mouth captures mine, swallowing my laugh. "My perfect little wife, my perfect little baby."
"Not married yet," I whisper against his lips.
"That's changing. Soon."