Page 92 of Call You Mine

Daring to look up at him from my position on the bathroom floor, my white-knuckled grip clutching the toilet bowl for dear life, bile once again rises inside of me from the look on his face. The sheer look of horror that flashes in his eyes.

My sharp nails dig into my palm and draw blood. Blood I now feel dripping down my wrist by the sheer force of my clenched fist.

Nothing.

Hollowness stares back at me through his dark eyes. They are empty, no trace of life, no emotion. Nothing like what I just saw outside as he fucked me on the bar counter.

The palpable tension along with the darkness and the silence in the room overwhelms me, especially since my vision is already fading from the shock of it all—something which has been occurring often when these, what the internet calledpanic attacks,surface. Blurred vision, sweaty palms, unsteady breathing and a chaotic rhythm to my pulse. A telltale sign I am about to shut down completely.

I still remember the first time it happened. One of the first nights I spent in Enzo’s penthouse—the moment I realized I’d never be set free. I rushed toward the door after he’d exited and found it locked. Panic swarmed me. The thought of not being able to escape too much to bear. I was never claustrophobic, at least I didn’t think I was, and my room in his apartment was not small, but it was the idea of being locked in his prison, which made me nearly succumb to the panic that had flooded inside me.

I ran toward the window in hopes there was another way out, but it was no use. His penthouse was perched on the top floorof one of the highest buildings in the city. The only way out was plummeting to my death, which at the moment I hadn’t yet considered. No, the regret of not jumping out that day came a few years later, and continues to haunt me to this day. Because although the man should be dead, his ghost was still roaming purgatory, eager to enact his revenge on me.

I clutch my eyes shut the moment I see the anger radiating off Damon’s expression as his eyes flicker back and forth between me and my stomach. I’m not showing. Nowhere near that point yet, since according to the pregnancy app I downloaded on my phone two hours ago, I am only about six weeks.

If I weren't so frightened, I’d be laughing at the absurdity of it. Me, pregnant, having a child with Damon Drake. Saying it out loud doesn't make this more real. If anything, it only makes it sound like some sick joke. A joke because of the way I can sense he’s about to react.

I’m not ready for it, though I fear I never will be.

Slowly, I open my eyes, tears I feel I’ve been holding in for days not hours—as I played this exact scenario in my head, trying to gain the courage to say something—make their way out of my eyes, staining my cheeks in smears of black mascara.

His jaw ticks, teeth clenched tight as his breaths turn unsteady. In three, two, one.

“This was not part of the fucking contract, Wynter,” he shouts, rushing out of the room and leaving me hunched over the toilet on my knees.

Well, that was worse than even I expected. I don’t bother rinsing out my mouth, simply wipe the bile from my lips with the back of my hand before I rush out after him and back into the bar's main room.

The contract, of course, he would go back to that stupid contract, just like he always did when things fell out of his control.

“The contract? Really, Damon?” I shout after him, but he ignores me, heading straight to the liquor bottles along the shelf. “I think after all that’s happened, the contract is a joke at this point.”

He chuckles, grabbing a bottle from the shelf and twisting the top off. “And whose fault is that?” he accuses, angering me further, yet still he refuses to look my way.

I tug my skirt down as I walk. “Don’t put this all on me, Damon. I’m not sure if you’re aware of how a baby is made, but it takes two.”

Finally, his eyes meet mine, only at the same time I wish they hadn’t because the look on his face is nothing but malice. “Don’t say that word.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh, it's that or keep crying and I won’t shed another damn tear for a man who’s afraid to say the word baby. “What, baby? You’ve got to be kidding me, right? You think just cause I don’t fucking say it doesn’t mean I’m not carryingyour babyinside of me.”

A loud clash sounds against the wall behind me as the glass bottle he just threw shatters against it. God, Jade is going to hate me for making such a mess. I don’t flinch, my mind no longer able to register anything more shocking or frightening than the way he’s looking at me.

He desperately runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends. “A baby,” he mocks. “You’re pregnant? You have to be fucking kidding me? We’re not even really together. None of this is real. How can you be fucking pregnant?”

His words cut deep into my soul, through every layer I’ve reinforced over the years. My scars, years of patching themselves up, layer upon layer of scar tissue searing shut my open wounds,all at once dissolved by the venom in his words. The spitefulness of his voice, a dagger straight to my heart, embedded so deep it’s found a home.

But what was I expecting, really? Did I even for a second really believe this would play out any differently than it is?

I didn’t want a baby, especially not when I’m still in this toxic situation, not even sure if I’ll be alive in the next twenty-four hours. Or if I’m still married to a monster.

Yet although this couldn’t have come at the worst possible time in my life, deep down, for a fleeting moment when time stood still, I imagined us together. A family, lost in a world far away from here, happy. Hand in hand, frolicking through secret gardens that only existed inside my mind.

“You think we can have a fucking baby together when none of this is what we wanted? It’s not real,” he reminds me yet again.

I think back to the night I allowed him to tattoo the word mine on my body, a body I let him claim as his only for him to tell me it was all fake. Now it’s my turn to break something, and I do, chucking an empty glass at his head. Luckily, he ducks in time, but the look of utter disbelief on his face proves just how unhinged this has become. Glass everywhere, covering every inch of floor around the bar.

“You can stop fucking saying this isn’t real, Damon,” I cry out, letting out all my pent-up emotions regarding our situationship. “Trust me.” I slam my hand against my chest. “I know it’s not fucking real, but it doesn’t change the reality of this. Not the reality of what I feel for you. Damon I…”

“Don’t,” he shouts, his voice so dark and sinister, as he grabs my wrist and tugs my hand away. I’ve never heard him speak to me or anyone in that tone, and the way his eyes darken as his fingers tighten around me painfully scares me. “Don’t fucking say something we both know you don’t mean.”

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