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“But I told Betty and her family that our parents are married,” I admit quietly, wishing that I’d just told her Oz and I were old friends, or any other lie that doesn’t make us sound like stepsiblings.
“So?” he snaps, his tone cooling.
“So, we can’t tell people that we’re stepsiblings and married.”
“We’re not stepsiblings. That title suggests we had or have a sibling relationship, which, unless I’ve been imagining brother-sister bonds all wrong, is nothing like what we ever shared. You’re my wife, I fucking love you. My dick has been rock-hard since the moment you stepped off that bus, and I assure you there is nothing fucking brotherly about the way I feel about you. But regardless of how we feel about each other now, our only relationship prior to you getting to town was us knowing each other for a short while, fifteen years ago. We never lived together for longer than a couple of days, we didn’t grow up together. We don’t share DNA, and I’ve never considered you a sister…ever. We don’t need to explain anything about our history to anyone, because the only information that’s important is that we’re married and that now you’re my wife.”
I want to argue, but the look in his eyes is a little too reminiscent of the way he used to look at me right before he’d lose his mind and start screaming, so I swallow down my protest and instead simply nod.
Oz’s eyes narrow, but after assessing me, he must deem my response acceptable because he presses a hard, fast kiss to my lips, then turns back to his pile of ingredients.
Ten minutes later, the rich, sweet scent of cinnamon fills the air.
“Three or four slices?” he asks.
“One.”
“Why? Did you want some eggs or something to go with it?” he asks, but before I can respond, he’s spinning away, opening a cabinet, and pulling out a pan.
“No, I don’t want eggs too, but one slice of french toast is more than enough, I feel like I’ve done nothing but eat for days.”
“Little One, you’re eating for two now, you need to make sure you’re getting enough calories,” he coos, covering my stomach with his palm.
“Oz, you know I’m not actually pregnant, don’t you?” I ask slowly.
“When was your last period?”
“I don’t know, they’ve always been irregular.”
“But you could be pregnant. I’ve filled you so full of me, there’s no way I haven’t bred you. We could get some of those ovulation pee sticks, though, to find out if you’re ovulating or have recently, then we’ll know you’re definitely pregnant.”
“I am not buying ovulation tests,” I gasp, my eyes wide and my voice horrified.
“Fine, I’ll keep pumping you full of me, and then we’ll get a pregnancy test in a few weeks.”
“Look—” I start.
“Do you like the vegetarian bacon?” he asks, randomly changing the subject.
“No, I don’t. Please, Oz, can you please just listen to me?” I beg, sucking in a sharp breath as I wait for him to look at me.
A part of me expects him to continue ignoring me, but instead he stops what he’s doing and turns to face me fully, giving me all of his attention.
“I know you’re only playing with this baby thing, but you need to know that I’m not sure if I can actually have children. If I can, then getting pregnant will probably be pretty hard for me because my periods are all over the place and my body…” My voice trails off when my throat thickens with emotion. This is the first time that I’ve really thought about the fact that I might not be able to have kids and it’s actually bothered me. Children were always a far-off prospect, something I thought about in the abstract, but Oz and I are married now, and he keeps talking about kids and me being pregnant.
I know a lot of the things he says to me are just dirty talk, and I won’t deny that him telling me over and over that he’s going to breed me is something I had no idea I’d like so much. But if kids one day are something he actually needs from a relationship, then I need to be honest and explain that might not be something I can give him.
“There’s a real chance that I might never be able to have kids,” I say quickly, closing my eyes and hiding from his reaction, knowing I’ll be devastated if this is a deal-breaker.
“Have you seen a doctor about this?” he asks, cupping my cheek and waiting for me to look at him. The moment my gaze lands on his, his eyes soften, and he sighs.
“I haven’t been to any specialists, but I do see a gynecologist. You need to have periods to make a baby. I’m not saying it’s completely out of the question, but I need you to know that it may never happen for me. Getting married yesterday was so impulsive, and we’ve moved so fast that this past week has been a whirlwind, but if wanting to have kids is a deal-breaker, then I need to know.” I don’t know if I’m looking for an escape route or if I’m pushing him to find out how serious he is about me and this marriage, but I watch his expression seriously, waiting for his reaction.
“A deal-breaker?”
“Are kids something you need?” I ask, forcing my eyes to stay open so the tears I can feel burning at the back of my lids don’t betray me.
“You’re all I need,” he says without a second thought.
