Page 143 of Branded
For the babies in my belly.
For…well, I couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that perhaps a small part of me drank it for herself.
Seven
Raph
Eggs and toast.
And water.
It wasn’t fucking gourmet, but if it stopped her from feeling dizzy, prevented her from passing out and hurting herself or those babies…
Well, I was scrambling eggs and juggling toast into her toaster.
That was answer enough, and the why of that answer—the why of why I was doing this, sticking my nose in her business, sleeping in a fucking chair beside her, cooking breakfast—was something I wasn’t going to focus on.
Doing, not thinking.
I’d done too much thinking already.
And those tears, that nightmare…I couldn’t fucking think about it.
So I was grating cheese into a pan, turning the eggs gently with a spatula, adding pepper (salt would wait until the end, just like my mom had taught me), and listening for the toast to pop up.
When it did, I buttered it, slathered strawberry jam (the only variety in her fridge and I approved) on top of both slices, scooped the eggs out of the pan, and then carried the plate to Beth in the family room.
The glass was empty, so I set the plate down, grabbed the glass, went back for the fork and napkin, refilled her water, and carried all three back toward her.
The plate was untouched.
No surprise, since I had the fork in my hand.
I pressed it into hers, draped the napkin over her lap, and said, “Eat. Drink.”
Blue, blue eyes on mine. I expected them to spark fire—she wasn’t the type of woman to take orders, even if she was off her game.
But there wasn’t a single spark in those cerulean irises.
Not one.
She just bent her head, forked up some eggs, and ate.
Fuck.
I should be thankful she was quiet, not shoveling out sass for once. But…it was wrong. Beth shouldn’t be quiet, and she shouldn’t be passing out, and she shouldn’t have fucking nightmares where she was crying out to someone not to hurt her, not to touch her.
Fuck.
“Beth,” I said, and she paused, the fork almost at her lips. “Honey, I?—”
My words stuck in my throat when she glanced up.
Empty. Desolate. A wide expanse of barren ice. A frigid dessert.
No red lipstick. No pinked cheeks.
A pale face, empty eyes, and…
