Chapter Four
Willa
I woke to the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, the soft thud of something being set on the counter, the low murmur of a voice from the direction of the kitchen.
The room was bright -- full morning light streaming through the gap in the curtains -- and I was alone.
I turned my head to the space beside me, to the indentation in the pillow where Nitro’s head had been and remembered his hand in the dark -- open, waiting, an offer without demand.
I’d fallen asleep watching it, and he’d been gone when I woke.
I sat up slowly, one hand going to my belly out of habit.
The twins were quiet this morning, and for once, I didn’t want to puke my guts up.
I ran my palm over the slight swell, feeling the reality of it beneath my hand.
Two lives that belonged partly to me and partly to the man moving through the house.
The mattress creaked as I stood, my body feeling heavier than it should have. I smoothed my hair back with one hand, tucking the loose pieces behind my ears, and headed for the door.
The hallway was quiet, the other bedroom’s door standing open to reveal the made bed and empty room.
I passed it without stopping, moving toward the kitchen with its sounds of purposeful activity.
The house felt different in daylight -- the shadows gone, the corners visible.
The floorboards were cool under my bare feet, the air carrying the scent of coffee and something else.
I reached the kitchen doorway and stopped.
It had been transformed. The counters, which had been bare yesterday, now held green vegetables in plastic bags, cartons of eggs, a loaf of whole wheat bread still in its wrapper.
A gallon of milk sat by the sink, a container of orange juice beside it.
The refrigerator door was open, and I could see more inside -- yogurt in neat rows, packages of cheese, a carton of what looked like almond milk.
On the counter by the stove, a bottle of prenatal vitamins stood front and center, the label facing out, impossible to miss.
I stepped into the room, my hand dropping from my hair to rest on my stomach.
The sound of my bare feet on the hardwood must have been too quiet to hear over the running water, because Nitro didn’t turn -- just kept talking into the phone pressed to his ear, his free hand braced on the counter beside the sink.
“-- Tuesday at eleven,” he was saying, his voice low and measured. “No, that’s fine. We’ll be there.” A pause. “First appointment. Four months.” Another pause, longer. “Twins.”
I moved past him toward the coffee maker, giving him a wide enough berth that we didn’t touch, and that’s when I saw it he was writing everything on a piece of paper.
My name written across the top in block letters.
Below it, a date, a time, and the name of a clinic I didn’t recognize.
An appointment. Without even asking me or getting my opinion.
My jaw tightened as I reached for the coffee pot, but I stopped halfway, my hand in the air. On the refrigerator door, held in place by a plain black magnet, was a piece of notebook paper with a short list.
HOUSE RULES, it said at the top. Then, in a column down the page:
1. No leaving the compound alone.
2. No skipping meals.
3. No missing doctor appointments.
4. Check in if you go anywhere on the property.
That was it. No explanation, no room for negotiation, just four absolute statements in black ink on white paper.
I read it once, then again, each line landing like something solid in my chest. No leaving.
No skipping. No missing. Check in. Four rules for a house I hadn’t agreed to live in, for a life I hadn’t agreed to share.
I turned to look at Nitro, who was still on the phone, his back to me, his shoulders straight under his T-shirt.
He’d showered -- his dark hair was damp at the edges, curling slightly at the nape of his neck -- and changed into clean jeans and a fresh shirt.
He looked alert, focused, already three steps into whatever plan he’d made for the day. For us.
“-- appreciate it,” he was saying into the phone. “We’ll see you Tuesday.” He nodded, though the person on the other end couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Things were happening too fast. Being claimed, moving in here, the appointment, and now the damn list of rules -- all while I slept in a bed in his house.
I stood in the kitchen reading the list a third time with my jaw tightening on every line.
Nitro ended the call and set his phone on the counter, then turned.
He stopped when he saw me, his gaze moving from my face to the appointment card I was holding and back again. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I reached past him for the list on the refrigerator, pulling it free from the magnet with a soft snap.
His gaze tracked the movement but he didn’t step back, didn’t give me the space I was clearly taking.
I laid the paper flat on the counter between us and tapped it once with two fingers -- not aggressive, but deliberate.
My throat felt tight, my heartbeat too fast, but I kept my voice steady when I spoke.
“I’m not one of your Prospects.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Just looked at the list, then at me, his expression giving away nothing. “Appointment’s at eleven,” he said, his voice level. “I cleared my morning. The food on the counter covers the next week. There’s more in the --”
“I don’t care.” The words came out sharper than I’d intended, cutting him off midsentence.
“I don’t care about the appointment or the food or what you cleared from your schedule.
” My voice was climbing now, the frustration I’d been holding since the moment he’d claimed me in front of the entire club finally finding a crack to push through.
“I didn’t come back to be managed. To have someone else decide what I’m allowed to do, where I’m allowed to go, what I’m allowed to need. ”
He stayed exactly where he was, posture open, no raised voice, no crowding me. Just watched me with that attention that made my skin prickle, like he was reading every word before I said it.
“I’ve spent enough of my life with someone else calling the shots,” I continued, the words coming faster now, less controlled.
“Having to ask permission to breathe. Being told what’s good for me without anyone bothering to find out what I actually want.
” My chest felt tight, my breath coming short.
“Your intentions being different doesn’t make it feel different. ”
My voice cracked on the last sentence. I didn’t look away.
Nitro let me finish. Then he let the silence sit for a full beat, the kitchen quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my breathing. When he spoke, his voice was the same measured tone he’d used before -- not raised, not defensive, just stating facts as he saw them.
“The rules aren’t about control,” he said. “They’re about the fact that you’re four months pregnant with twins on a compound that has active threats, and I won’t apologize for taking that seriously.”
But then he stopped. Picked up the list. Read it back to himself, his gaze moving over each line with the same attention he’d shown in Church. Something in his expression shifted -- not softening exactly, but recalibrating, like he was seeing the words for the first time.
“Which one?” he asked, his voice flat and direct. “Which one do you have a problem with?”
I blinked. It wasn’t the response I’d been braced for -- no anger, no dismissal, no doubling down on his position. Just a simple question, delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone he’d used to tell me about the appointment.
“The first one,” I said after a moment. “No leaving the compound.”
He nodded, once. “What would you need?” he asked. “For that rule to feel less like a leash?”
The question felt different than anything else he’d said -- not an argument, not an explanation, just a direct request for information I hadn’t been asked to provide. My arms, which had been crossed tight over my chest, dropped slightly. I didn’t have an answer ready. Hadn’t expected to need one.
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “A friend who could go with me. Or a way to check in. I just --” I broke off, frustrated by my inability to articulate what I wanted when I hadn’t even known I wanted it until he’d taken it away.
“I need to be able to leave. To have the option, at least, without feeling like I need your permission.”
He considered that, his head tilting slightly. “You have that option,” he said. “That’s not what the rule says.”
I looked at the list again, reading it with fresh eyes. No leaving the compound alone. Not no leaving at all. Just not alone.
“Oh,” I said.
Neither of us moved. The list sat on the counter between us, the morning light catching on the black ink of Nitro’s handwriting. The argument didn’t resolve so much as it shifted -- from a wall into something with a door in it. Not gone, but passable. Not settled, but survivable.
Nitro slid the list back toward me with one finger. “Mark anything you want to renegotiate,” he said. His voice carried none of the command from earlier and all of the certainty -- the difference between a man issuing orders and a man who had decided my objections were worth hearing.
I picked up the pen lying beside the coffee maker -- the one he must have used to write the list -- and hovered it over the paper.
The first rule stared back at me, clear and uncompromising.
No leaving the compound alone. I drew a line through “alone” and wrote “without checking in first” beside it, my handwriting small and cramped next to his bold print.
I could tell him I was leaving and where I was going.
I wouldn’t like it, but it wouldn’t feel like he was controlling me.
I looked up to find him watching me, his gaze on my face rather than the list. “Better?” he asked.
“It’s a start,” I said.
He accepted the answer without pushing for more. Then he reached past me for the coffee pot, his arm brushing mine with deliberate care, and poured the last of the coffee into a mug he set on the counter near my hand.
“Drink that,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out breakfast.”
I picked up the mug, feeling the warmth of it seep into my palms. I’d been trying to avoid caffeine, but right now, I needed it.
The coffee was black -- no cream, no sugar, nothing to soften the edge of it -- and it burned going down.
But it was exactly what I needed: strong and direct and honest about what it was.
Just like the man standing across from me, watching me drink it with that attention that wasn’t quite concern and wasn’t quite control, but something in between that I didn’t have a name for yet.