Page 22 of Forced Knocked-Up Mate

“Isn’t it customary? It’s our wedding night, after all.”

“Go and consummate yourself, you fucking jerk!” she yells. “I’m going to my room, and I don’t want to be disturbed!”

She turns and storms down the hallway, leaving me feeling like the survivor of a shipwreck. Shaken, cold and confused, sitting on the shore, wondering where I am, and how I even got here.

Chapter 7 - Lucy

The night is worse than awkward. I manage to shower and get changed without interacting with Peter, but when I go to the kitchen for a snack, he’s there, going through the cupboards. I try to just make a cup of tea and leave, but the clunking and sliding noises get louder and more annoying until I crack.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m trying to find something to eat. What the hell is going on in your pantry? I’ve been homeless and living on the street and had more options.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap, turning to face him and folding my arms across my chest. He sticks his head around the door so he can glare at me.

“Brown bread. Whole-grain crackers. Organic noodles. Natural, unroasted nuts. You don’t even have any salt in here.”

“You have a problem with healthy food?”

“No. I just don’t agree that this is healthy. It’s depressing.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry,” I say mockingly. “Maybe you’d like me to bake you a cake.”

“Yeah, that would be great, actually,” he says with a genuine grin. “I haven’t had cake in a while. What kind would you make?”

“Oh my lord,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Aren’t you precious.”

“What?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

“I was being sarcastic, for heaven’s sake. Bake your own damn cake.”

He scowls at me. “That was really mean. I’m a guest in your house—”

“An unwelcome guest!”

“You think I want to fucking be here? Does it look like I’m having fun?”

I take a breath and hold it, biting my lip.

“You owe me, you know,” he says smoothly. “You did this, so it’s only fair that you take care of me.”

I pick up my cup of tea and manage to keep my composure, even though it takes every last ounce of my strength. “I am leaving now,” I say, letting out my breath slowly. “Help yourself to anything you like. After all, it is your house, too.”

I turn and walk away, resisting the urge to stomp down the hall and slam the door. I feel good about keeping my calm for all of two seconds.

Thumps and bangs sound from the kitchen, with the odd crash. It doesn’t seem like anything is being broken, but he’s still using utensils with unnecessary force.

I take a long, slow sip of tea and try to breathe slowly and evenly. All I want to do is tear down the hall and scream at him—what the fuck are you doing?—but I won’t give him the satisfaction.

I put my headphones in and find a soothing playlist on my phone. After I finish my tea, I meditate for a bit. An hour or so later, I’m much calmer.

When I take out my earbuds, the house is quiet. Tentatively, I go to the door and push it open. I can hear the TV playing softly, but no other noise.

Being as quiet as possible, I pad down the hall in my bare feet, trying to track Peter. I can’t hear anything, so I slip past the living room and into the kitchen.

What the actual fuck?I stare at the room in total shock, my heart hammering as fury floods through me.

The sink is overflowing with pots, pans, and utensils. Dirty plates, cups, and bowls are scattered across every surface, and the counters are dirty. The place is such a wreck, I just stand and stare for several minutes, wondering how he even achieved this level of chaos in such a short time.

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