I shoved past the entrance door to a darkened, vast living room, kicking the fencing equipment by the door aside.
If Emmabelle was out again, working until late or being entertained by a male friend, I was going to … going to …
Do bloody nothing about it. I had no power over her.
Hope that month of shagging her was worth it, mate. Because this is your future.
Moving across the living room, I passed by her bedroom before retiring to my own bed.
Her door was ajar. To my great embarrassment, my entire body slackened with relief when I noticed the light inside was on.
Unable to resist myself, I stopped by the sliver of space separating both of us and watched her.
She was standing in front of an imperial full-length mirror.
Her hoodie was bunched up around her chest. Her stomach was bare. She cradled it in front of her reflection, staring at it in wonder.
My eyes trekked downward, doing the same.
For the first time, it was truly and undeniably obvious that Emmabelle Penrose was pregnant.
The hard, round shape of her belly could not be mistaken. It looked magnificent. So smooth and warm and full of a baby that belonged to us.
She was showing.
I closed my eyes, pressing my head against the wooden doorframe, drawing a breath.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, sometimes I want to devour you just to make sure no one else will have you.”
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
She turned around to the sound of my voice.
The love and wonder in her expression melted, replaced by a sly smile.
“I’m surprised Louisa let you off the leash tonight. Trouble in purgatory?”
Guess it was her version of the word paradise for us.
“Stop it,” I clipped.
“Stop what?” she cooed.
“Stop acting like a brat. Stop pushing me away. Stop ruining a perfectly good moment because you’re so scared of men you simply must torment them if they threaten to put a crack in your perfectly constructed wall.”
“All right, then.” Belle let her hoodie drop over her stomach.
“No.” I pushed myself off the doorframe and made my way to her, my stroll unhurried. “I want to see.”
Emmabelle opened her mouth—probably to tell me to go make a baby with Louisa if I was so interested in seeing a pregnant belly—but I managed to put a finger to her mouth before the words came out.
“It’s my child too.”
Silently, she pulled the hoodie up to her breasts.
I stood in front of her, gazing at the wonder that was her pregnant stomach.
“Can I touch?” My voice was unrecognizable to my own ears.
“Yeah.” Hers, I noticed, shook too. The air around us stood still, as if holding its breath too.
The tips of my fingers circled her stomach from both sides. It was hard as stone. We both looked down at her belly like we were waiting for something. A minute passed. Then two. Then five.
“I don’t want to let go,” I said.
“I don’t want you to let go,” she said quietly. We weren’t talking about her stomach anymore.
My eyes rode up to meet her gaze through our reflection in the mirror. “Then why are you doing everything in your power to drive me away?”
She shrugged, a helpless smile on her face. “That’s the way I’m wired.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“It’s still true.”
“Tell me what happened to you,” I demanded, for the millionth time, thinking about Frederick, the way he had peeled Louisa’s layers. Was I even close to shedding the first coat? How many more to go? And what in the bloody hell happened to this woman?
Even my mates, who were by no stretch of the imagination considered good guys, never left a woman quite so broken.
She took a step forward, erasing all the space between us.
I was hard as a rock and about to rip the clothes off of this woman.
“Stop butting into my business, Devon. You’ve already sampled my bag of tricks. There’s nothing more to see here.”
“You’re more than a ditzy party girl, no matter how hard you try to market yourself this way. False advertising.”
“Ha,” she said dryly. “You just haven’t read the fine print.”
A mean smirk tugged at my lips. “You’re fantastic, and thorny, and worth everything you put me through.”
“No!” She pushed me, her palms slamming into my chest. She was angry now, scared. I pushed a button. “I’m not. Stop saying that. I’m the bad crop. The unweddable harlot.”
“You’re fucking amazing,” I drawled in her face, laughing lowly. “Brilliant. One of a kind. The smartest woman I know.”
She pushed me again. I got harder. “I’m no good.”
“No. Not good. Fucking terrific.”
“I’m going to be a terrible mother.”
The last sentence was said in a rush of exasperation.
She fell to her knees at my feet, her head hanging low. “Jesus. What was I thinking? I can’t do this. I’m not Persy. I’m not Sailor. This is not my life.”