Page 168 of Ruthless God

I take another step, voice dropping.

“Does this change how you felt when you were screaming my name?”

She’s shaking now. But she doesn’t back away. I lift my hand, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her skin burns beneath my fingertips.

“Does this change us?”

Her breathing is uneven, her pupils blown wide. I lean in, close enough to taste the air between us.

“Does it change the fact that it’s my baby you’re carrying?”

Her voice is raw, broken. “I don't know.”

“You do know. You’re just scared to do this. To dive in all the way with me.”

A tear trails down her cheek.

“You’re right. I am scared.” Her voice is shaky, but strong. “How can we have a normal life together? Raise a child together?”

She swallows hard, her fingers tightening against her stomach.

“What if you forget who I am? Or decide that I have to die?”

The words hit harder than I expect. Because they’re not just fears. They’re real possibilities. Her questions are valid.

I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. “I’ve spoken to physicians about my disorder.”

Her brows lift slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that.

“I won’t lie to you, Cecely. There’s no cure. It won’t go away.” I lean forward, holding her gaze. “The goal is that Gabriel and I live together harmoniously.”

I let out a bitter laugh before I can stop it. Because—fuck.

“Believe me, I see the irony.” I shake my head, smirking. “How can we live together in harmony when we couldn’t even do that in life? Much less in one body?”

Cecely lets out a choked sound. Part laugh, part sob.

“Claudius, you’re not making a compelling case for yourself.”

“I suppose I’m not.” Then I go quiet for a moment. And when I speak again, my voice is lower. Honest. “But it’s the truth. My truth. And you deserve to know.”

Her breathing is uneven. Her fingers press against her stomach. Like she’s trying to shield our child from the weight of my confession.

I tilt my head.

“You still think I’m lying to you?”

Her lips part, but no words come out. So I step closer.

Voice lower, softer.

“You’re trying to decide if you can live with this. With me.”

She looks away, like she doesn’t want to say it out loud.

So I say it for her.

“You already know the answer, Cecely.”

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