Chapter 18
eighteen
. . .
I lean over the toilet for the third morning in a row, emptying the contents of my stomach until there's nothing left but bile.
My hands shake as I flush, then rise to splash cold water on my face from the sink.
The nausea has become my unwelcome alarm clock, rousing me before dawn with a persistent churning that sends me running for the bathroom while Sutton still sleeps.
Three days of this, combined with the fatigue that's been dragging at my limbs, the tenderness in my breasts that makes even the softest fabric uncomfortable, and the realization—which hits me now like a physical blow—that I haven't had my period in six weeks.
The pieces fall into place with a clarity that leaves me lightheaded, gripping the edge of the sink to keep from collapsing to the marble floor.
I'm pregnant. Carrying Sutton's child. The ultimate fulfillment of his possessive desire to ensure I can never truly leave him.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, searching for visible changes in a body that still looks the same but feels profoundly different.
Is there a glow to my skin, a fullness to my face?
Or am I imagining these things now that the possibility has taken root in my mind?
I press a hand to my still-flat stomach, trying to comprehend that a new life is growing there—a perfect fusion of Sutton and me, knitting together cell by cell in the dark, warm safety of my womb.
I need to be sure. Need concrete proof before I tell Sutton, before I watch his possessiveness escalate to heights I can barely imagine.
With shaky hands, I open the cabinet beneath the sink, reaching into the far back where I keep my few personal items separate from Sutton's meticulous arrangements.
Among them is a small box I bought in a moment of paranoia a month ago—a pregnancy test, purchased during a rare solo trip to a pharmacy while Sutton waited in the car, checking emails on his phone.
The test is simple enough. Pee on the stick, wait three minutes.
I follow the instructions with mechanical precision, setting the test on the counter as I wash my hands again, avoiding my reflection now.
The three minutes stretch into an eternity, each second marked by the pounding of my heart in my chest.
When I finally look, the result is unmistakable. Two pink lines, clear and definitive. Positive. I'm pregnant.
A strange calm settles over me, replacing the initial panic.
This was inevitable, wasn't it? From the moment Sutton first came inside me without protection, whispering dark promises about putting his baby in me, making sure I was "good and bred" so I could never leave him.
I'd been aroused by those words then, shamefully excited by the taboo nature of them.
And somewhere deep inside, I'd known this moment would come.
The bathroom door opens without warning, and I have no time to hide the test, no opportunity to prepare how I'll tell him.
Sutton stands in the doorway, his hair mussed from sleep, wearing only pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips.
His eyes find mine in the mirror, then drop to the test still clutched in my hand.
"Cecily," he says, my name a question and a demand all at once.
I turn to face him, holding out the test so he can see the result for himself. "I'm pregnant," I say simply, the words hanging in the air between us.
For a long moment, he doesn't move, doesn't speak. His face remains impassive, only his eyes betraying the storm of emotions behind his controlled exterior. Then, slowly, he crosses the space between us, taking the test from my hand, studying it as if ensuring it's real.
When he looks up at me again, the naked hunger in his gaze makes my breath catch. This isn't just desire—this is something deeper, more primal, more possessive than even I've seen from him before.
"Mine," he says, the word barely audible yet somehow filling the entire room. His hand reaches out, palm pressing flat against my stomach where his child grows. "Now you're truly mine. Both of you."
The proprietary touch, the absolute certainty in his voice, should alarm me. Instead, it sends a wave of warmth through my body, a sense of rightness I can't explain even to myself.
"You'll never leave my sight again," he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my stomach clench with a mixture of apprehension and arousal. "Not when you're carrying my child. Not when you're at your most vulnerable."
I should protest this declaration, this further restriction on my already limited freedom. But something in his expression stops me—the raw vulnerability beneath the possessiveness, the fear barely concealed behind the controlling words.
"Sutton," I begin, not sure what I'm going to say, only knowing I need to reassure him somehow.
He doesn't let me finish. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle given the intensity radiating from him. His hands cup my face with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the fierce possession in his eyes when he pulls back to look at me.
"Do you have any idea what this means?" he asks, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones with reverent touches. "What you've given me?"
I shake my head slightly, caught in the gravity of his gaze.
"Immortality," he says simply. "A continuation of myself. Of us. A living, breathing manifestation of my claim on you." His hand slides from my face to my throat, resting there lightly, his thumb brushing over my racing pulse. "The ultimate possession."
The word should disturb me, but I've long since accepted that in Sutton's world, possession is the highest form of devotion. And there's something undeniably powerful about carrying his child, about knowing I hold a piece of him inside me that will bind us together forever.
"I'm going to worship every inch of you," he murmurs, his hands sliding down to the hem of the oversized t-shirt I sleep in, drawing it up and over my head in one fluid motion.
"Every day of this pregnancy. Going to watch your body change as it nurtures my child.
Going to make sure you want for nothing, need for nothing. "
His hands cup my breasts, now fuller and more sensitive than before, his touch feather-light as if he knows instinctively how tender they are. I gasp at the contact, my body responding to him with embarrassing eagerness despite the morning sickness that still lingers in the back of my throat.
"So beautiful," he whispers, lowering his head to press a gentle kiss against each breast. "Already changing. Already becoming more perfect."
His mouth trails down, over my ribs, my stomach, until he kneels before me, eye level with where his child grows. His hands span my waist, thumbs meeting just below my navel in a touch that's both possessive and reverent.
"My son or daughter is in here," he says, his voice filled with wonder that catches me off guard. "A perfect combination of you and me." He presses his lips to my stomach in a kiss so tender it brings tears to my eyes. "The family I never thought I'd have."
The admission—a rare glimpse of vulnerability from this man who shows the world only strength and control—makes my heart twist in my chest. For all his possessiveness, his obsession, his need to own me completely, there's something profoundly human in his reaction to this pregnancy.
Something that speaks not just of possession but of longing fulfilled, of dreams he's never voiced aloud.
He rises in a fluid motion, lifting me as if I weigh nothing, carrying me back to our bedroom. He lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness, his eyes never leaving mine as he sheds his pajama bottoms, revealing his already hard length.
"I'm going to make love to my pregnant fiancée," he says, the words sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine despite the clinical phrasing. "Going to show you exactly how precious you are to me now."
He joins me on the bed, his body covering mine with careful weight, supporting himself on his elbows to avoid pressing on my stomach. His kiss is deep but controlled, none of the usual demanding hunger, replaced instead by a reverent exploration that leaves me breathless.
"Sutton," I whisper against his lips, overwhelmed by the tenderness of his touch, by the emotion I can feel radiating from him.
"I know," he says, understanding what I can't articulate. "I know, little one. Everything has changed now."
And he's right. This pregnancy has shifted something fundamental between us, transformed his possessiveness into something with higher stakes, deeper meaning.
I'm no longer just his lover, his fiancée, his possession.
I'm the vessel carrying his legacy, the mother of his child, the keeper of his future.
He enters me with exquisite care, his eyes never leaving mine, his movements slow and deliberate in a way they've never been before. This isn't our usual passionate claiming—this is worship, pure and simple.
"Perfect," he murmurs as he moves within me, his hand sliding down to rest protectively, possessively over my stomach. "So perfect. Both of you, so perfect."
The dual acknowledgment—of me and the life growing inside me—sends a wave of emotion through me that intensifies the physical pleasure building with each careful thrust. I reach up to touch his face, needing that connection, that reminder that despite the primal nature of what's happening, we're still us—Sutton and Cecily, bound together by something deeper than even this new life we've created.
"I love you," I whisper, the words spilling out without conscious thought, without the calculation that usually governs my interactions with this complicated, dangerous man. "I love you, Sutton."
He freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes widening at the declaration—the first time either of us has said those words without qualification, without couching them in terms of possession or belonging.
Then his control shatters, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that's all consuming need and naked emotion.
"Say it again," he demands against my lips, his rhythm increasing slightly though still carefully controlled. "Say it while I'm inside you. While you're carrying my child."
"I love you," I repeat, the words easier the second time, more certain. "I love you, and I'm carrying your baby, and I never want to leave you."
A sound escapes him—half groan, half something more vulnerable—and his thrusts become more urgent, though still mindful of my condition. One of his hands slides between us, finding that bundle of nerves that makes stars burst behind my eyelids, circling it with practiced skill.
"Come for me," he urges, his voice rough with emotion. "Come around me while carrying my child. Show me how perfect we are together."
The dual stimulation, combined with the emotional intensity of the moment, sends me hurtling over the edge. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me in waves that seem endless, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
He follows a moment later, his release pulsing inside me as he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. When he finally lifts his head to look at me, there's a vulnerability in his eyes I've rarely seen—a naked emotion that catches me off guard.
"I love you too," he says quietly, the simple words somehow more impactful coming from this man who usually expresses his feelings through possession and control rather than straightforward declaration. "Both of you."
His hand returns to my stomach, resting there with gentle pressure, and I cover it with my own, our fingers intertwining over the place where our child grows.
In this moment, with the morning light filtering through the windows and Sutton's uncharacteristic gentleness surrounding me, I can almost forget the darker aspects of our relationship—the control, the obsession, the lengths he's gone to in order to keep me as his.
Almost, but not quite. Because I know that this pregnancy, this child, will only intensify his need to possess me completely. Will only strengthen the invisible chains that bind me to him.
And the most frightening part is, I wouldn't have it any other way.