Luke
With the run over, I can shower and start my day. It’s the little things that help clear my mind and allow me to think rationally. There’s no way we can continue like this. I’ve given her over a month to see reason, but now, we’ll have to come to terms.
It’s not like marrying me was the absolute worst thing to ever happen. I know so many other people that would have just abused her the moment she said I do. I didn’t do that. I gave her space. I gave her time. But I have no more to give. I’m not going to be a stranger in my own home any longer, and if she doesn’t like it, then I’ll just have to make her like it.
Once I walk into the bedroom, however, my stomach plummets. Something isn’t right. Normally, the bed is made, and she’s already at work by the time I get done with my run. In fact, it’s the one thing I can count on every morning. But now, the blankets are in a heap, and the door to the bathroom is closed.
Perhaps she’s just getting a late start? It’s strange, though. She knows she’ll run into me if she’s not away by seven-thirty am. Pressing my ear to the door, I listen for the shower, but it’s quiet. Maybe she did leave but was running late, so she left the bed in shambles?
I open the door, and that’s when I see Shelaine on the floor with my cum still on her body. Has she been here the whole time? Falling to my knees, I reach out and brush my fingers across her forehead. She doesn’t feel hot, so it’s not a fever, and unless she drinks into the night without me knowing, she’s not just hungover.
Her brows knit together when I shake her, and she mumbles a half-hearted request for me to let her sleep. But I can’t. Not when something is obviously wrong. Fumbling with my phone, I pull it out and dial the only person that might be able to help me - my mother, Cheyenne.
True, Mr. Smiley could probably look at her and make a diagnosis, but there’s still the very real fear of bringing her to a doctor. I just can’t. No doctors. Not unless I have to. Besides, the last thing I need is the other Dominants getting into my business. If this is stress-related or somehow seen as a lack of care on my part, I don’t want them to have that ammunition against me. I mean, it’s not like I’m forcing her to shut me out, but that won’t matter to them.
When I relay everything to Cheyenne, however, that’s when my fears take a much harder turn. Could she really be pregnant? Did I somehow form another little monster with her? From what I understood, she was on birth control. How in the world could she be pregnant? Granted, the smug part of me wants to shout with joy at just the thought of her carrying my child, but pregnancy means tests, doctors, and more people in our lives that have no business being there.
Rolling Shelaine onto her back, I look her over, searching for any sign that can either confirm or deny her condition. But she looks just the same for the most part. There are dark circles under her eyes that weren’t there before, and unless I’m mistaken, she seems a bit thinner, especially in the cheeks.
But all of that is easily explainable by so many things that aren’t pregnancy-related. Stress could do it. Mono could do it. Hell, so many types of illnesses could cause what I’m seeing now, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly stress. Scooping her into my arms, I hold her body against mine and try to coax her awake.
When she does, her gaze is soft, almost loving, and for a moment, I can’t even breathe. But then she realizes who’s holding her, and her eyes narrow into slits.
“What are you doing back so early? Shouldn’t you be out there running?”
It takes every bit of willpower to keep my voice calm and even. It’s concern that's helping me temper my anger. “I did that, and I came home to find you passed out on the floor.”
That’s when her expression changes again, and I see the fear hovering in her eyes. “I -. I thought I was in bed.”
“Nope. And now, we’re going to see Doctor Bradley. If you want to see him without cum on your chest, I suggest you find it within you to stand up and let me wash you off.”
She trembles in my arms as she forces herself up from the floor, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s concerned about pregnancy like I am. It’s not like she’s fighting with me about seeing the doctor, so perhaps she also has no clue what’s going on.
Leaning over, I turn on the shower and let it heat up as I hold Shelaine in my arms. With as weak and tired as she is, she leans into me without a fuss, and for the first time in several weeks, I feel like I can breathe again. I hold her to me, wrapping her in my arms, showering her with the affection I wanted to show her from the beginning, but she wouldn’t let me.
I help her inside and groan as she arches into the spray. Her nipples brush against my chest and harden at the contact. Leaning down, I slide my lips over hers and moan as she leans into me instead of pulling away. I’m not sure what’s causing this change in her, but I welcome it.
It’s the first time I’ve felt welcomed by her since our moment of I do. Wrapping my hands around her waist, I let my cock brush against the silken heat of her body. This is where we belong. In this space of time. I just hate that it’s her being sick that’s causing us to become closer than we have in a long time.
Reaching past her, I grab some shampoo and lather it in my hands before rubbing it over her scalp. Shelaine sways toward me and rests her head against my chest as I continue to work, the fragrant soap filling the small space. After a moment or two, she turns from me and gags, her body heaving as she pushes herself against the cool tiles.
“The smell,” she cries out, her hand clutching her stomach. “Make it go away.”
Fuck. Was it something she ate last night? Maybe a stomach bug? Because I refuse to allow my brain to go down any other avenues. She can’t be pregnant. She can’t be. It was cool enough to watch over Lana when Parker couldn’t be there, but that was where the responsibility stopped.
If Shelaine is pregnant, that means all the responsibility is on me. And I’m nowhere near ready for that. But then, perhaps this is the catalyst we need. The one thing that can bridge the gap. Honestly, I never even considered it before because having a baby meant so many scary things. Granted, if I had thought about it that way, I probably would have fucked her every hour or so, breeding her until she was pregnant.
But that would have been a wrong answer too. It would have been forcing a baby on her, much like I forced the marriage. This way, neither of us is to blame. It would be a freak accident, unpredictable, unplanned.
Closing the shampoo bottle, I pull Shelaine in closer and work the objectionable scent out of her hair. The entire time, my brain is begging, pleading with the universe for it to be something as simple as food poisoning. The baby might help some things, but there’s a high chance it would also make everything even worse.
The idea of being a father is so terrifying, so absolutely horrifying, that my brain continues to shut it down every time it creeps up. What do I know about being a father? The only “dad” I ever had was Ryker, and he’s an example of how to fuck up your child.
What if I’m a fuck up? What if she is pregnant and I’m a shitty father? I don’t want that for her, and I don’t want that for the kid. Isn’t it true that babies pick up stuff from their mothers? If that’s true, Shelaine hating me would mean that the baby might come out hating me. How do you even reason with a baby? How can I even explain to an infant that everything I did was from either fear or some emotion akin to love?
It’s bad enough that Shelaine seems to despise me, but to have our baby hate me too? It’s almost too much to bear. But then, it’s all still a big if. There are still so many other things it could be. Until we know for sure, I won’t borrow trouble.
Pushing her against the wall, I use the warm water and my hands to clean away the cum. I don’t dare open any other bottles, not when I don’t know what effect they’ll have on her. Once she’s clean, I help her out and dry her off before bringing her into the bedroom.
Already, her eyes are drooping again, and concern beats at my chest. Leading her to the bed, I let her rest for a bit while I gather her clothes. Though she usually sleeps longer than I do, I’ve never known her to be this exhausted. I swear, if all of this is because of the stress, I’ll have to figure something else out.
I’m not the type of man to apologize first, but if this is causing Shelaine stress out to the point of illness, then I need to man up and do the right thing. I’m not going to allow her a divorce or annulment, but I’ll have to do something to keep her from getting sick. Just because I’ve never seen that modeled doesn’t mean I can’t at least try.
How do I even start to bridge that gap? Flowers seem far too small and mundane a gesture to make up for all of this. Chocolates? Not if she’s sick. I’m already sleeping on the couch. I bought her a camera. What else can I do? Besides giving her a divorce, there’s no way to make this right.
The only thing that makes any sense is to just be the best man I can be for her. I know I don’t have all the words or gestures, but I can make more of an effort. Maybe cooking instead of ordering out. Making a point to see her before she goes to work? Fuck. Why is everything so hard?
Letting her sleep, I dress her as best as I can, working with her body as she moves. But all too soon, I’m done, and there’s nothing left but to go to see Mr. Smiley. Dread fills my gut at the idea of even having to take her. I should be able to fix this by myself, dammit. No doctors. No fucking doctors. And yet, I have to go to one of the most perverted ones I know.
If he knows what’s best for him, he’ll keep his damned hands to himself. I may not know how to fix a wound, but I sure as fuck know how to make one. He better keep his demeanor professional. I won’t let anything else stress her out, especially not a doctor that has his type of reputation.
Fear slides back in, rooting itself into my brain. As much as I don’t like him, I’m unable to give Shelaine the care she needs. Helping her sit up, I pat her cheek until her eyes flutter for a moment and open. Again, she looks up at me with that doe-eyed glaze on her face until she remembers what’s going on.
The look of fear slices into me, cutting me deep. I never wanted her to ever be afraid of anything except the delicious torture I could do to her body, but even then, I wanted it to be an aroused fear. Not this. Not with the concern and tears she’s staring up at me with.
“I-. I- don’t feel good.”
“I know, honey,” I murmur, helping her up. “That’s why we’re going to see Doctor Bradley. Now wrap your arm around my waist, and we’ll get going.”
Leading her outside, I once more take her to the backseat, but this time, it’s so she can lie down and not because I want to instill in Shelaine where her place is. Again, the moment she lies down, she’s back out. With no fever and no other symptoms, it makes things far clearer than I want them to be.
But there has to be something else. Mono maybe? I’ve heard of people sleeping all the time with mono. But then how do you explain her throwing up? Perhaps the two aren’t related at all. Food poisoning and Mono. That works. It’s not ideal, but it’s not pregnancy.
My fingers wrap around the steering wheel as I drive over to the office. Even though it’s not that far away, I don’t want Shelaine to expend any more energy than she has to. Once we’re there, I ease her up and help her out. Luckily, when we walk through the doors, there’s no one else in the waiting room.
I don’t let Shelaine sit back down because I’m worried she’ll just fall asleep again. Seconds and minutes tick by until finally, Mr. Smiley walks out, his grin faltering as he looks at Shelaine.
“What’s wrong with her?”