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He knew his answer.
He would do whatever he could for this child; he had to. He was terrified of loving him, terrified of losing him like he’d lost Livvie, because he didn’t know if he could survive such a loss, but what choice did he have?
When he returned to the living room, he was carrying a tall water glass with ice that clinked musically against the edges. He placed it down on the coffee table near her then paced to the other side of the room.
“The house is large. Before the baby is born, you can have the whole first floor to yourself. There’s ample space and privacy. We have months to work out how to do this,” he gestured from his chest to hers.
“Do what?” She asked, numb.
“Co-exist without wanting to kill one another.”
She grimaced, ignoring the little voice in her head that was reminding her she didn’t always want to kill him. There was a big part of her that also wanted to rip his clothes off, just for a moment, then she’d go back to hating him. She ignored that voice though, absolutely refusing to give it any quarter.
“Once the baby is born, one of us will move—either me, to the first floor, or you, down here. It makes sense to both be close to the nursery.”
Her eyes widened and something about the way he spoke, so pragmatically, made this feel more real than it had, to this point.
“Show me,” she whispered, reaching for the water and taking a sip.
He didn’t respond, just stared at her for a long time.
“Show me the nursery.”
It was obviously an agonising thought and she was sympathetic to him; of course she was. But minutes ago, he’d threatened to take her baby away if she didn’t fall in with his plans completely, so she wasn’t in the best headspace to give consideration to his emotional needs.
He gestured to a door on the other side of the room. Georgia walked through it, aware that he was right behind her, not because she could hear him but because somehow her body had become completely attuned to his.
The corridor was wide with high ceilings and the artwork on the walls was, like the living room, eclectic. A mix of bright, modern paintings hung clustered together, so despite being quite different in style, they were all somehow complementary. It must have taken a designer with an excellent eye to coordinate so many disparate pieces.
“Through there,” he said, muscle jerking in his jaw.
She glanced up at him, felt his hesitation and sympathy had her hesitating too. “You can’t even bear to go in, can you?” she said, moving closer, so she could see him better. “How are you going to have a baby in this house? How are you going to do this?”
He was silent, staring straight ahead.
“Dante, listen to me.”
His eyes dropped to hers and her pulse leaped.
“You just found out about our baby. You’re acting on instinct. I think we both need time to consider our situation.” Her voice was husky. “I’m not saying your suggestion doesn’t have merit,” she added, to placate him, but also because it was true. “It’s just, why rush into this decision? I’m only just in my second trimester. We have time.”
But it was hard to speak when his eyes were probing hers, as if looking for the thoughts behind her words, as if he could somehow read something in her that wasn’t there.
“From the moment I learned we conceived a child, I have been a father,” he said, quietly. “I do not need time to consider our options—there is no option, but for us to be together, to raise this child, and for me to keep him—and by extension you—safe from harm.”
“You can’t do that,” she said, frowning. “And I’m not your responsibility.”
“I can provide the best environment, for both of you,” he said.
“But I could still step out on the street and be hit by a bus.”
His eyes swept shut. “I will not speak in hypotheticals.”
“I’m just saying?—,”
“I know what you are saying. I have heard it all before. I understand life, risks. But where there is an option to protect you and this baby, I will take it.” He put his hand on the glossy white timber door. “Go. Have a look.” She went to take a step inside but his hand curled around her wrist, forestalling her. “I know you like to fight with me,” he said. “But don’t fight me on this. I do not want to become a man who fights a woman for custody of their child.”
“You prefer blackmail,” she said with a lift of one shoulder.
