Page 36 of Sinful Bride

How long has this been happening?

Have I been starving my baby?

The tears I’ve been holding back all day break through. I slump into the pillows, but not before angrily hurling the pump at the foot of the bed.

Of course, Pasha chooses that exact moment to walk into the room with Taty cradled to his shoulder. His eyebrow twitches when he sees the pump bounce off the mattress and onto the floor, but he wisely holds back from saying anything about it.

“I made a bottle for her,” he says instead. He sits down on the edge of the bed and hands her to me. When he pulls the bottle of prepared formula from his pocket, I want to chuck that across the room, too. “I figured you should be the one to feed her. It might help improve things.”

Fuck him for being kind and perfect. He’s being so patient and understanding while I lose my absolute shit over my inadequacies.

It would be so great if our daughter was just as patient and understanding.

She’s not. Not by a long shot. I hold her close and keep her to my breast as if she’s feeding from it, but offer her the bottle’s nipple instead of my own. At first, she takes it without fussing. I glance up at Pasha, who smiles and squeezes my shoulder.

But then she stops. Scrunches up her face. Spits the nipple out.

And screams at the top of her lungs.

“Malyshka, come on,” Pasha chides her. He reaches for her and I’m all too eager to give her back. “Your mother just wants to feed you.”

The one saving grace here is that she keeps right on screaming. I know it’s horrible to think that—one more horrible thought in a day full of them—but I can’t help it. I can’t stand seeing her giggle at him when she only screams and cries when I try to bond with her.

This time, she’s an equal opportunity banshee who hates the formula with every fiber of her being. Not only does she shove the bottle away, she promptly turns her head and spits it up all over her father. Then looks at him with an expression neither of us anticipated—like, No, you drink it.

It’s kind of funny. Just a little. Enough to dry my tears for a second and make me ugly-snort. Pasha looks at me when he hears it and joins with a soft chuckle. “I’ll give the doctor another call. Here.”

He returns her to me so he can change his shirt.

“Sweet girl,” I coo between sniffles as I prop us both upright. “My sweet baby girl. Yes, you are! You’re my sweet baby girl…”

Taty just squints at me suspiciously.

When Pasha emerges from the bathroom, he finds both of us crying on the bed.

“What happened?” He scoops her up and holds her to his bare chest, guiding her cheek to rest against his skin.

The fact that she instantly calms down makes me feel even worse.

At the same time, my ovaries are screaming, “Round Two!” as I watch a shirtless Pasha, all rippling muscle and inked skin, cradle our tiny newborn and whisper comfort to her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I hate this.

I hate all of this so fucking much.

I hate how my heart aches knowing my own daughter hates me. How my brain keeps whispering reminders that I’m not a person worth loving, not even by my own family.

How my vagina and ovaries are completely ignoring the Northern Hemisphere of Daphne and urging me to have another baby with this man.

Pasha calls for his mother, who comes in and takes Taty out for a nap in one of the other rooms. Asya gives me a hug before she leaves, whispering encouragement that I know what to do; I’ve got this.

Do I? I sure as hell don’t feel like I do.

“I’ll call Dr. Bradshaw in a bit.” Pasha slides in next to me until I’m on his lap. “Right now,” he continues, “we need to talk?—”

“About how I’m a terrible mother?”

“No. Why would you say that?”

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