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"Have sex with me and get knocked up? Yeah."
She put a hand on her mouth, but I heard her cry ofpain?
"You thinkthatof me?"
I shrugged. "Anyone is capable of anything, Elsa."
She dropped her hand and shook her head. "But…but you've gotten to know me. Do you think I'm capable of that?"
"Like I said anyone is capable of anything."
But not Elsa, something inside me insisted. She wasn't skilled in that kind of subterfuge. She was fucking sunshine and daisies. Beautiful inside and out. She was a baker living in a tiny apartment in the Marais. If she washer father's puppet, she'd be living it up, wouldn't she?
She moved almost unconsciously, keeping her distance from me. "How…how…comment peux-tu dire ça? Comment peux-tu penser ça?" How can you say that? How can you think that?
It was charming how her almost perfect New York English failed her when she was nervous or agitated.
"Elsa, we don’t know each other very well," I said, trying to keep my voice as calm as if I were speaking to a wounded animal.
She looked at me with such pain that my heart clenched. I didn’t want to hurt her. In fact, I never wanted this woman to be hurt by anyone.
I reached out, but she pulled away, slipped off the bed, and wrapped herself in the silk robe she often wore around the apartment.
"You think I'm a whore? My father's whore?"
I couldn't stand it. I wouldn’t let her struggle and suffer because I couldn’t open my heart and was full of doubt.
I came off the bed and put my hands on her shoulder. "No,ma douce. I don't. You're too pure, too sweet, and—"
"Then why did you say such things to me?" she accused, tears rolling down her face.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, "Please don't cry. I'm not worth your tears, baby."
I hugged her close and felt her tears scald my chest. I was an asshole. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Who cared if she was doing what her father asked—or if she wasn’t? None of it changed the fact that she was pregnant with my child.
Are you sure it's your child?I heard Dom's cynical voice in my head. Of course, it was. She and Thierry were friends. I'd seen them together.
But when you've lived a life trusting only a handful of people and viewing the world through a lens of deep cynicism, it was hard to believe what was in front of you—especially after being wrong so many times that you no longer expected others to be good or honest.
"No more crying." I pulled away from her and wiped her tears.
She licked her lips. "I'm in love with you," she whispered.
Two things happened at her confession.
The first was unexpected. I felt a surge of something that I had no choice but to identify as deep, unadulterated happiness. I grew up surrounded by love—my parents and my brothers—but Elsa loving me made me feel like a fucking King.
The second part was expected—I didn’t believe her. I wondered if she was trying to manipulate me, steering the conversation away from my doubts and toward convincing me that I should believe her because she loved me.
I gave her an uneasy smile, unsure how to respond. I struggled to balance my skepticism with the vulnerability in her eyes, which revealed just how much it meant for her to open up to me.
I kissed her forehead. "Thank you for loving me,ma douce." Those words came from my heart, the one I didn't think I had. Iwasgrateful for her love, for her affection.
She looked radiant even with her eyes still glistening with tears.
"I don't know what the fuck it means to love a woman," I explained, "But you're my wife, and I'll take care of you and our child." I put a hand on her stomach, cupping our baby.
"I don't need you to take care of me, Duncan," she said patiently. "I've been taking care of myself for years, and I can take care of our little one as well."
