Page 130 of Devil's Tulip

On the third day, I open my eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling, my limbs feeling weighted with invisible chains. Or maybe gravity has decided to double overnight. Moving feels impossible, but my bladder is screaming to be emptied. So eventually, I drag myself off the bed and shuffle to the bathroom to take care of it. Then I splash some cold water on my face and trudge out of the bedroom.

I have a shift at the hospital this evening, but I think I might cancel it and— “Michael? What are you doing? Aren’t you going to work?” I frown at my husband, who’s standing shirtless at the stove, stirring something bubbling in a pot.

It smells delicious.

“No. I sent everyone away so it would be just us two having breakfast alone. It will be fun.” He grins, strolling over to grab my hand and drag me deeper into the kitchen. His eyes sparkle with excitement, like this is the best idea he’s ever had.

I reluctantly go with him, taking my seat in front of the island. As he turns back to the stove, I study him, my eyes traveling across his bare torso, admiring the way his muscles ripple, the stunning artwork on his body shifting with his movements.What exactly did I do to deserve him?

Nothing, whispers that insidious voice.This isn’t meant for you.

Michael chooses that exact moment to glance back at me. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

The question is casual, but there’s nothing casual about Michael. He catalogs every expression that crosses my face, files away every shift in my mood like a detective gathering evidence.

I hesitate, then go for honesty. “I’m thinking I don’t deserve this… that I don’t deserve you.”

“What?” He immediately abandons whatever he’s cooking, then closes the distance between us in two strides. “You need to get that shit out of your head. Right the fuck now.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the authoritative note in his voice. “I wish it worked like that. That I could just command it to go away and it would. Just snap my fingers and poof, it’s gone.” I snap my fingers for emphasis, giving him a helpless shrug.

He narrows his eyes. “Alright. How about this then? I don’t give a damn whether you deserve me or not. I know I don’t deserve you. But I saw you, I wanted you, and by God, I got you. I wanted a baby to tie us together, and I got it too—along with something even better. A true love in you.”

My heart pretty much melts at his words, the ice that’s been forming around it these past few days cracking under the heat of his declaration. I tilt my head up, and he doesn’t waste a second leaning down to take my lips, tongue invading my mouth aggressively like he’s mad I’m second-guessing myself. Like he can kiss the doubt right out of me.

I’m breathless when he breaks the kiss and turns back to the pot that’s bubbling ominously on the stove. “Breakfast will be ready soon,” he assures me, and I nod automatically, my lips still tingling from his kiss.

But something about his words begins to niggle in my brain. I chase the thought, trying to identify what about his declaration is setting off alarm bells in the back of my skull.

My smile fades as I keep trying to make sense of it, but nothing clicks.

Before I can pin it down, he places a bowl of thick, steaming chicken stew in front of me, alongside a hunk of bread so soft it looks like a cloud. Drool pools at the corner of my lips as I stare at the mouthwatering meal. It might be too heavy for breakfast, but my pregnant body doesn’t give a damn. “You made this?” I ask in amazement, breathing in the rich aroma.

He smiles proudly as he takes the seat across from me. “Gracie made the bread and prepped the chicken, but the stew is all me.”

I tear off a piece of bread, dip it into the stew, and take a bite. Holy shit. It’s amazing. I moan, savoring the explosion of flavors. “This is insanely good.”

“You like it?” He watches me take another bite, ignoring his own food.

“I love it!” I exclaim around a mouthful of bread and stew. He blows out a breath, and only then does he start eating his own food.

We make light conversation throughout the meal, and bit by bit, my dark thoughts start to ease up. Who cares if I deserve him or not? I have him, and that’s all that matters.

After breakfast, I get up to clear the dishes, but Michael shoos me away and loads them into the dishwasher himself. I sit by the island, watching him when it hits me—what’s been bothering me since his declaration.

“Michael?”

“Hmm?” He turns back to face me, running a hand through his hair, his expression lazy and content.

“What did you mean earlier—when you said you wanted a baby to tie us together and you got it?” I frown, replaying his words in my head. There’s no way he could have planned it. Iwas on birth control, for crying out loud. It was just dumb luck I got pregnant, a one-in-a-hundred chance...Right?

His eyes focus on mine, suddenly sharp and assessing. “Does it matter anymore?” he asks after a while.

Does it matter? Logically, it doesn’t. I’m already pregnant, already in love with the child growing inside me, so how it happenedshouldn’tmatter. But something pushes me to nod. “Yes, I’d like to know what you meant. Please.”

He sighs, a sound that carries a resignation that makes my skin crawl with foreboding. “Remember that night you lied and said you were on your period?”

I have to think back—our life together has been such a whirlwind of violence and passion that individual moments blur together. Then it clicks: the night Elira brought me the birth control pills. A cold, clammy feeling spreads through me as the uneasy feeling from the past few days rushes back full force. “Yeah…” I manage.

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