Page 211 of Seizing Control: Part One

It was a test.

He isn’t committed to living.

But he hasn’t yet found the courage to end his life permanently.

Determined to make my wife’s pregnancy as stress-free as we can, the decision was made to hide the full extent of his depression from Cherub. However, she isn’t stupid. I know she knows. She knows that I know that she knows. And, like we do with Venom’s death, our baby’s true paternity, and Bebe’s impending due date, we ignore the elephant in the room to continue on living in our artificial bubble of bliss.

“It’s okay,” I urge as firmly as I can when my duchess doesn’t say anything else. “Tell me what’s happened?”

“There’s a baby.”

Realising that I’ve been pacing back and forth in the pre-sunrise morning, I force myself to stand still. Perched on the wheel hub of the trailer, Cub’s intense scrutiny makes me scowl at him. He doesn’t blink, simply continues to watch me for signs of bad news from home. Eyebrows pulled together, I scuff my bare foot over the soft red dirt of the Australian outback while I listen to my wife do her best to explain the reason for her use of the emergency code. I scan my environment as awareness prickles over my skin. Saltbush surrounds us. My club brothers continue to peacefully sleep, oblivious to my mounting paranoia. Our camp is a kilometre off the road at the end of a goat track that leads into a wildlife reserve.

We’re safely tucked away from prying eyes.

Yet, I’ve never felt more exposed.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

Glancing around our camp again, I attempt to identify the cause of my unease.

Cherub inhales a second time. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it—Bebe gave birth to your son, and she had a woman leave him with Everett at the rehab centre a couple of hours ago.”

My hearing fills with static.

I barely register her next statement.

“She put both our names on the birth certificate.”

The racing of my pulse sounds like a washing machine on spin cycle.

“There’s a DNA test confirming he’s your son.”

Stomach churning, I try to swallow down the excess saliva that fills my mouth. It doesn’t work. Nausea takes hold. I stalk to the edge of our camp just in time to vomit all over the ground. Again and again, I retch until nothing comes out.

Cub comes up behind me.

He pats my shoulder.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then shove him away.

“Slash... are you okay?” Panic turns my wife’s voice shrill. A soft cry, a fussy sound that obviously belongs to a baby, starts up. I hear rustling, then Cherub’s tone shifts as she croons, “Hey, hey. It’s all right. You’re okay. Shhh.”

The serenity in her voice rattles me.

I’m a mess of rejection and disbelief.

Cherub’s acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary.

“He’s gorgeous,” my wife murmurs. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a garbled muddle. She continues as if I’m not spiralling, her tone calm and steady as she tells me, “I know this is a shock, and it’s probably my fault for taunting her... still, she didn’t have to do this. She could’ve kept him from you—gave him to someone else since she doesn’t want him. We would never have known.”

My wife’s frankness is an arrow to the heart.

Her generosity in making this a “we” situation instead of pinning the blame where it belongs is a kindness I’m not sure I deserve. My fuckups are piling up. Most of them unknown to my wife at this stage. Her faith in me is built on a foundation of quicksand. I’m going to end up drowning in my sins when Cherub discovers that I haven’t kept the simple promises she requested.

Don’t lie to her.

Don’t keep secrets from her.

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