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There’s a lump in my throat too, but not a single tear is shed. I’m incapable of it.
I just let out another long sigh, continuing my story. “A few of the men who participated in the attack were held accountable, sentences to life in prison, but not everyone ended up in jail. One person in particular got away with it until I hunted him down years later and shot him dead in his own house. I fled thecountry after that, finding myself in a few different places until I came to the United States.”
“You shot him?” she asks, sounding surprised. She shouldn’t be. She already witnessed me kill her father.
Or Mr. Thompson, as she wants me to call him. I don’t blame her from wanting to distance herself from him emotionally. I tucked all my dead family members in a pine box in the back of my head.
They had their own funeral, albeit a quick one. When you’re alone on the streets as a boy, you don’t have time to dwell on your sorrow. Besides, we all end up in the same place eventually.
I stroke Sage’s hair idly, thinking about the past. I’ve never been one to revisit the my memories unless they were particularly good, but it does feel nice to talk about this. The weight on my shoulders has gotten a little less heavy since opening up to Sage.
“I did kill him, and he was my first,” I finally say. “Not the last, though, obviously. I went on a bit of a spree before I knew what I was doing, before I got organized.”
“That makes you a serial killer.”
I laugh through my nose. “The difference between me and those lunatics is that I only kill people who deserve it. I’m not into whacking strangers.”
“Just impregnating them,” she replies with a smile in her voice.
“Only you, and you’re not a stranger anymore.” I roll over suddenly, pinning her to the bed and spreading her legs with my thighs.
I take her hard, muffling her moans with the pillow as I ensure that she really is going to get pregnant. I’ll do this as many times as it takes.
21
Sage
Whoever the man in the blue suit is, he’s terribly elusive. Nobody has seen him for weeks, and it’s been quiet here.
Too quiet, considering how volatile things were when I was first taken from my home and wed to a Russian mafia boss.
I shouldn’t complain, though. Everything I could ever need or want has been provided for me with absolutely no limits. Viktor has proven that he will go to any length to make sure I have whatever pleases me, but most of the time that’s just a nice dinner together followed by a wrestling match in the bedroom.
So, despite the monotony, it has been fun. On top of that, we seem to be making progress with one of our goals. The man in the blue suit is nowhere to be found, but so is my period. I think I might be pregnant.
The realization hits me quite hard one day as I’m eating breakfast. It’s the nausea that tells me something is up. Mystomach is usually quite well-behaved in the morning, and only tends to bother me if I’ve eaten a particularly, large meal.
Freshly squeezed orange juice and buttered toast are a safe bet, so I’m confused for a moment as to why my stomach is rejecting them. The pieces come together when Viktor enters the room, his body glistening in sweat from his morning workout. He’s literally perfect, but he’s also the reason I feel so terrible.
“You look a little… pale,” he says, immediately trying to backtrack when he catches my look of annoyance. “I mean, maybe it’s a little cold in here. Are you cold?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, but my voice lacks conviction. I push the toast away, the buttery scent suddenly overwhelming. “Just a bit uneasy. Maybe I didn’t sleep well.”
Viktor’s eyes narrow, and I know he’s not buying it. He’s always been too perceptive for his own good. Or maybe formyown good.
He strides over, sweat gleaming from his body and distracting me from the churn of my stomach for a few seconds. I need more distractions, but he’s going to dig into this further. He probably already thinks I might be pregnant and he wants confirmation.
“You’re not a good liar, Sage,” he says softly. “Tell me what’s really going on.”
I swallow hard, trying to gather the courage. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. I’m just not sure how he’ll react. Of course, he wants the baby, but what if this is nothing? Will he think I’m crazy for feeling pregnant when I’m not? Will he be angry that I tricked him?
All ridiculous thoughts to have, I know, but that doesn’t stop my anxious mind from coming up with them. It’s funny that I handled death and violence so well, but telling the man I’m married to that I might be having his child is causing me so much stress.
“I think... I think I might be pregnant,” I finally say, my voice barely a whisper.
His reaction is instantaneous. His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks like a child on Christmas morning, full of awe and hope. “Pregnant?” he repeats, as if testing the word on his tongue. “Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “But I’m late, and this morning sickness makes it even more likely. I’ve never felt like this before.”
