Coming Home (Morelli Family 6)

I’ve never told him the answer to this, though, and it feels pointless to lie about it now. “He told me if I left him and went back to your house that night, he would burn it down.”

Mateo nods, but I think he already assumed Vince threatened me so he doesn’t look surprised. “And that seems like someone you should fight me to keep alive? Someone who would make a threat like that, who—after four years—kidnapped you and tried to take you for himself again? That’s the person you want to father your baby?”

“Of course not. More than anything, I wish you were the baby’s father. But these are the cards we’ve been dealt, Mateo.”

“You don’t think a baby might bring him back again?” he asks.

I close my eyes, dread moving through me. “I hope it wouldn’t.”

“But you know it could. You know we are not safe in a world where Vince is alive and you have his baby. You know eventually you’re going to have to choose one or the other, right?”

I cock a suspicious eyebrow. “So, if I let you kill Vince, you’ll no longer be worried that my baby’s going to grow up to try to steal your baby’s seat at the table?”

“Oh, no, I’ll still worry about that. If this happens, I will always have to worry about that.”

“Have you ever heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy?” I ask him.

“Of course.”

“Let’s not create one of those.”

Rolling over, he moves closer to my body and lets his hand creep down between my legs. I open them, reaching for him, running my hands down his sides as he moves on top of me.

“You’re not wearing panties,” he murmurs, before dropping a few kisses along my jawline.

“I told you, they disintegrated,” I tease, tangling my fingers in his hair.

I’m perfectly happy to let this ugly topic go and get lost in him for a little while, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it. As soon as he makes the move to turn things sexual, he wavers.

He pulls back to look at me, his eyes narrowed. I can tell he’s scattered tonight, probably a little from all the bad news about my pregnancy, but mostly because of the alcohol. Mateo doesn’t like to be out of control, so while he drinks plenty, he rarely lets himself get drunk. I’ve only encountered it a few times before, and it’s always a little hard to swallow. He’s all over the place, like his thoughts, usually so carefully organized, processed, and dispensed to the rest of us, are scattered everywhere. My limited experience with Mateo not in control of himself makes me glad he works so hard to stay in control; I’m pretty sure unfiltered he’s a complete disaster.

“What?” I ask, cautiously.

“You know I could force my will.”

This isn’t a threat, merely an observation, but it grates on me all the same. He knows he can force me to do anything he wants through his various channels, his manipulations and tricks, outright threats if he has to. But he doesn’t do it anymore, because he loves and respects me. Because he may play rough, but he never actually wants to break me. Drunk Mateo may not remember that.

As gently as I can manage, I point out, “And you know there would be a high cost if you did.”

“How high?”

My heart thuds. “Too high.”

He considers it for several seconds, then resumes kissing my neck. “I could fix it.”

I don’t want to challenge him, but he needs to know where the line is. I let him keep kissing my neck, one hand resting on his back, but my tone is firm. “No, you couldn’t.”

“You’d still have to marry me.” As if to remind me, he tugs on the death necklace that still hangs around my neck.

I don’t like this at all. I don’t like the unsubtle reminder that even though I want to be here, I don’t really have a choice. He can ultimately do what he wants to me, he only chooses to cherish me. I wish I had sober Mateo in bed with me right now. “We’ve been down this road before, Mateo. Please don’t take us back. It would be much worse this time, and I don’t want to do it again. Respect my limits.”

“What about my limits?” he asks. Not strongly, just curiously. “What if this is mine?”

It feels like my heart turns to sludge and oozes out of my chest cavity. I pull away from him, pushing him off me. “Don’t ask that unless it is.”

He lets me push him off me, but now his hand snakes around my waist, yanking me back against him. “Don’t pull away from me.”

“Don’t make me,” I return.

His hand flattens against my abdomen. It should feel nice, but it makes every muscle within me taut with apprehension.