Page 150 of Cruel Demands

If she were smiling, I would not be able to tell, the way her face is squished right now. I think for a moment that I bet she looked similarly when she slept as a child.

I sit up and pull my shoes off, putting them together against the wall. I unbuckle my belt and remove my pants, unbutton my shirt and stand to find a hanger in her closet for it.

From the bed, she chuckles.

“What?” I ask her, slipping the shirt onto the hanger.

“Nothing. You’re just…particular.”

The silence returns. My eyes move to the line of her body beneath the blanket. There is no visible change. I know it is too early. I know the child is smaller than anything I can picture clearly. Still, the knowledge of it alters everything.

Taylor follows my gaze. “You keep looking at my stomach.”

“Sorry.”

She hesitates, then takes my hand as I return to the bed. She places my palm low against her abdomen. The gesture surprises me enough that I do not breathe. “There’s nothing to feel yet,” she says.

I know. But I cannot answer. Her body is warm, her skin not as tan as when I met her now that she stays inside most days. Now that she lives in Russia. She is muscular and tight, and it is hard to imagine that she will stretch to make room for anything.

My hand looks too large there. Too rough. I have held weapons with steadier hands.

A strange pressure gathers behind my ribs. I feel compelled to lower my cheek to her stomach. Taylor goes still. I spread my hand over her, cradling what cannot yet be cradled.

Awe is not a sensation I have often permitted myself. It makes a man vulnerable. So does terror. I close my eyes. “My father liked children when they were small,” I say. Taylor’s fingers move slowly through my hair. “When they adored him without question,” I continue. “When they were too young to see what he was.”

She says nothing.

“When I became old enough to disagree, he treated it as betrayal. Every decision was obedience or disloyalty. There was nothing between.” I turn my head but leave my hand where it is. “I have spent my life promising myself I would not become him.”

Taylor watches me carefully. “And now?”

“Now I know promises are simple. Fool’s errands,” I say. Her face softens, and I look away from the pity I see there. “I do not want to make this child afraid of me.”

The words are more difficult than any confession I have made.

Taylor’s hand settles against my cheek. “What do you want?”

I look down at her stomach. “I want them to be safe.”

Her mouth twists into a rueful smile. “So you see the problem.” A quiet laugh escapes her. “It’s the same one I’m having.”

I want to make her a promise right now, but I can’t think of anything true. I kiss her stomach instead and ask her, “What names are you thinking of?”

“I don’t know. Nothing too dramatic.”

“What qualifies as dramatic?”

“Oh, you know, like one of those composer names.”

“One of those composer names,” I scoff. “I am offended.”

She shrugs. “I like common names. Anna. Jack. It was easy to go through life as a Taylor.”

“You would give my child a common name?”

“Our child.” The correction is gentle.

“Our child,” I repeat. “How do you think your family will react?” I ask.