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Not rage, but resignation.
“This isn’t just about you and me, Wren?—”
“Of course not! This is about your precious freaking Bratva. This is about your reputation. That’s what’s most important to you. Everyone else is either a pawn or an obstacle, and you move us around however you please.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before she pivots hard on her heel and storms into the Lamaze studio with her back arched straight.
The class, predictably, is a nightmare. It’s amusing that I thought it could be anything different. The instructor coaches us and a small handful of other expectant parents through poses, breathing, trust exercises.
But even when Wren is nestled between my legs, her back flush to my stomach, I can feel her radiating the exact opposite of trust. It’s fear, doubt, uncertainty beaded up in every drop of sweat wicked from her to me.
My dick doesn’t know about any of that, obviously. It just feels her near me and it wants. Truth be told, it’s not the only part of me that wants Wren closer and closer and closer still.
There’s another part—a real human would call it a “heart,” though I’m not sure I even have one of those—is begging for the exact same thing.
Let her close.
Keep her close.
Safe, not caged.
Protected, not imprisoned.
But those are such delicate lines. I’ve spent my whole life stepping right over those as I please. She’s determined to make me mind my footsteps.
How can I, though? It’s my world in my arms right here. Wren and my child inside of her… every fucking thing that matters is encased in the circle of my touch. I want so badly to lock them there forever.
But I’m learning more and more every day that, when it comes to Wren…
What I want is rarely what’s best.
12
WREN
“Is it true?”
I recognize that voice. It’s Syrah’s I-can’t-believe-you-kept-this-from-me voice. It’s her I-thought-we-were-friends voice. Except that, for the first time in our friendship, it’s directed at me.
“Sy—”
“Is it true, Wren?” she interrupts. “Is Bee really dead? Or is that just tabloid bullshit to distract from the fact that you’re apparently fucking her fiancé?”
My heartbeat is so loud that I can barely hear her. I’m lodged between two horrible truths—my only real friend knows I’ve been lying to her, and Bee is in fact dead.
“I… I can explain.”
“Famous last words, huh?” The words are clipped at first, but then her voice softens. “Okay, fuck, fine. I suppose I should let you explain.”
“Bee’s dead.” I cringe as soon as I say it—two little words shouldn’t hurt so bad.
Syrah sucks in a breath. “I was sure that was a lie,” she murmurs. I try to launch into a legitimate explanation, but instead, I get caught up in a sob. On the other side of the call, I hear Syrah’s breathing ratchet up a couple of notches. “Shit, Wren, I’m so sorry. I know you two were close.”
“W-we… were…”
“But, like, how?” she gasps. “She was so close to her wedding day. She was so happy, so full of life. I just… I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah.” I sniffle. “That makes two of us.”
