Page 67 of Lucas
I brace myself for an argument, but to my surprise, he turns his back. I shimmy out of my work clothes and pull on the soft t-shirt and shorts as fast as my leaden limbs allow. “Done.”
Lucas turns back around, and I burrow under the covers. He takes my discarded clothes and folds them, setting them on the dresser.
“I’m not a baby,” I grumble.
“A simple thank you would suffice.” He pins me with a look.
I hold his gaze for a long beat, the air between us crackling. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His face softens a fraction. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Stomach flu or something, I guess. I just want to curl up and rest until it passes. Please don’t pick a fight with me right now.”
“I wasn’t going to fight with you. I’m not a monster. I only want to help. Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I just need to sleep it off.”
“Are you pregnant?” He narrows his eyes.
“What?” My mouth drops open. “No! Of course not.”
“If you’re pregnant, I need to know. We only just got married. We’d need to figure out how to spin it,” he says in a flat tone, but a muscle ticks in his jaw.
“I’m not pregnant.”
“How can you be sure? Maybe I should send Hugo out for a test?—”
“No!” I lurch up, my hand wrapping around his forearm. “No tests.” And certainly not with poor Hugo as the errand boy. I’d never be able to look the man in the eye again. “I’m not pregnant.”
Lucas cocks his head, a question in his eyes.
“I can’t be pregnant because in order to get pregnant, one needs to have sex. Or so they tell me. And I haven’t had sex in...” I trail off, cheeks flaming. “A very long time. Ages. It’s just a stomach bug or something.”
His expression shifts, surprise flickering across his face, but he chooses not to comment. “I’ll fetch you some tea.” He leaves the room, and I slump back against the pillows, pulling the blankets up to my chin.
Lucas returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug and a plate of dry toast. “Drink. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
I close my eyes again, so tired. “Later.”
“Ava. You need fluids. Now.” His tone brooks no argument.
I crack one eye open, meeting his gaze. He looks worried.Huh.“Why do you care?”
He shrugs. “You’re sick. It’s what you do for someone who’s ill.”
“No one’s ever taken care of me when I was sick before. I’m used to fending for myself. You don’t need to stay.”
“Your dad never looked after you? Surely when you were small?—”
I shake my head. “No. When I was very young, I had nannies. From about age ten on, I took care of myself. Father was always too busy, and he didn’t want me anyway. I was a burden. I learned not to bother him when I was ill. He’d only get angry if he had to miss work.”
Lucas goes still. “A burden? You’re his daughter.”
I scoff. “He wanted a son. Got me instead. And not only that, I killed his wife. My mother died giving birth to me.” My voice breaks on the words, a familiar ache pulsing in my chest.
Lucas is perched on the edge of the bed, looming over me, eyes intent on my face. I can feel the heat of him, the intensity.
“You did not kill your mother. There’s no way it could be the fault of an unborn baby. You didn’t ask to be born. That was their choice to have a child. Yes, it’s a tragedy that she died. Of course, he grieved. But you...you’re all that’s left of her. He should cherish that.” His voice is low but fierce.
