Page 26 of Betrayed Pregnant Mate

If only that could be true.

Chapter 12 - Percy

I’m in bed, hands looped together over my chest, staring at the ceiling. When I came back to the apartment today, after a long, fruitless excursion with Ado, I’d found an air mattress in the living room, and all of Veronica’s stuff scattered around it.

“I’m sleeping out here,” she’d said, “and you can’t convince me otherwise. I want to be close to the door.”

I’d just stared at her, fighting every instinct inside me, demanding that I kiss her, hold her, pull her body into mine. The air mattress was right there. All I had to do was take her by the hips and push her down into it. Something inside me knew that she wouldn’t resist me; it would feel as good for her as it would for me.

But I’d taken a deep breath, turning and heading for the closet in the hall, where the second lock in the pack was still in the blister package. Then, I’d spent ten minutes installing it on the outside of the door.

“Veronica,” I’d said, weakly, making her jump. She’d looked up from whatever she was doing on her phone, already tucked into her air mattress. “Please come lock the door behind me.”

“What?” she’d said, eyes going wide. I’d gripped the wall next to me tightly, using it as an anchor to keep from going to her. When I spoke next, it was in the most serious voice I’d ever used in my life.

“When I walk down this hall, and go into my bedroom, you are going to follow me, and you are going to lock the door from the outside. Tomorrow morning, after you’ve showered and completely ready for the day, you’ll come and unlock it. It will be the last thing you do before you leave. Is that clear?”

Something like desire flashed through her eyes, and I had to close mine, visions of my hand on her throat lightly, talking dirty to her, coming immediately to mind.

I could do that again. I could do that right now. I could have her.

Without a word, I’d turned and walked down the hallway, hands shaking as I shut the door behind me. A moment later, I could smell her nearby, knew that she was just on the other side of the door. The lock turned, and for the first time since we’d both entered the apartment together, I was able to relax, just slightly.

The only way I’m getting to her tonight is if I break down the fucking door. And even I’m not that crazy. Doing this, having her lock me in here until she leaves, is the only way I’m going to be able to survive having her here in my apartment with me.

It comes back to me, all at once, the day Aris took me by the shoulder and brought me here, telling me the space was mine if I wanted it. Not to rent or have for free for a while, but if I wanted it, he would sign it into my name.

When I’d nodded, unable to speak, he did it the next day.

This apartment was my therapy for a long time. Every day, I woke up, made a list of things I wanted to accomplish, then drove to the hardware store and got the materials. I sanded. I painted. I re-wired light switches and outlets and blew a fuse more than once, making the baker downstairs furious with me.

I tore up the carpet, polished the solid wood flooring, and then put rugs down when the baker claimed my stomping around was too loud. I bought a few pieces of furniture, but for some reason, felt unable to do more than that. I discovered that my team members had canceled my lease in Washington and brought all my belongings to Rosecreek.

Aris said they were in his basement, and I was welcome to go through them whenever I felt able. Otherwise, if I didn’t want them, I only had to tell him, and he would get rid of them.

I still haven’t answered him about it, but I am focusing on getting the apartment in perfect shape. The last renovation was the lock.

It’s been hours since she locked the door, and I’m still here, body shaking, tracing the patterns in the popcorn on the ceiling. I’ll do this all night, gladly, if it means she’s safe.

Then, from the hallway, I hear the tiniest, muffled click, and I know with absolute certainty that she has unlocked the door from her side. All at once, I can smell her outside the door, and the one saving grace is that the smell is all wrong. It’s nothing like her true scent—cinnamon to her core—and that, at least, confuses my body enough that I don’t leap to my feet.

Instead, I breathe and try to use the exercises my therapist has given me. I trace the four lines of the window, timing my breaths with the action. I count to ten. I picture my happy place—an old arcade I used to frequent as a kid. I cycle through these exercises, begging Veronica to go away, to go back to her air mattress, to let me suffer in peace.

Then I hear the tiniest little knock. I don’t answer. Maybe she’ll think I’m asleep.

“I know you’re awake,” she says, her voice muffled through the door, but clear, like she hasn’t been able to drift off, either. “Answer the door.”

“Go back to bed, Veronica,” I warn, my body already heating up at the idea of opening that door and seeing her there, in her little silk pajamas, eyes dark and wide and staring right up at me.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps, then, “come to the door.”

I could laugh at the absurdity of that if I wasn’t so torn up with the pain of trying to resist her. My body, as though aware that she is the one holding the cards in this relationship, sits, stands, and moves to the door.

My hands shake as I unlock it from my side. I open it only a crack.

“What?” I ask, the word coming out more breathy than I intended.

“Why did you leave?” she asks, and a bit of the unforgiving need inside of me dies at the way she says it, the way she reminds me of all the pain I caused her.

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