Page 79 of Nine Months to Bear
Instead of complying, he steps closer, invading my space with his heat. His hands rise to my shoulders, then slide down my arms. My breath catches as his fingers trace the curve of my wrist.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
It feels like we’re talking about something different now, though.
“I told you already, I’m fine?—”
“Show me.” His fingers trace my collarbone, finding a scrape I hadn’t even noticed. “Here?”
I’m suddenly intensely aware of my pulse thudding at every point his fingers touch—throat, wrist, the tender inside of my elbow. His inspection becomes torturous with each passing second, thumbs skimming the undersides of my breasts as he checks my ribs, palms ghosting down to my hips.
“Stefan…” His name emerges as a breathless whisper. “I’m okay.”
“You could have died today.” His hands frame my face, tilting it toward the light as he examines a scratch on my temple. “Because of me.”
“You’re only worried because I could be pregnant with your baby,” I whisper. I’m talking more to myself than to him.
His entire body goes rigid against mine. The heat in his eyes hardens to frost, and I realize immediately that I’ve miscalculated, shattered whatever strange tension was building between us. His hands drop from my face like I’ve burned him.
“I didn’t mean—” I try to backpedal, but there’s something in his eyes now that makes the words die in my throat.
I don’t know what to say. Mostly because I don’t know what I think. Do I really believe this dangerous man is genuinely concerned for my wellbeing beyond my potential as an incubator for his heir? Or am I merely an investment he’s protecting?
The truth lies somewhere in the middle. In the space between his splayed fingers on my body. In the gap between his hips and mine.
“Stay here,” I find myself pleading, desperate to change the subject. “Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone after…”
After watching you kill.
After realizing just how deep this rabbit hole goes.
After feeling more alive in the past few days than I have in years.
Stefan studies me. “No.”
Oh. Well, alrighty then.I swallow the disappointment, ready to turn away so he can’t see the embarrassed tears starting to fill my eyes, when his hand tightens on my hip.
“You come stay with me.”
My pulse immediately doubles its tempo. “Wh-what?”
“My security is better,” he says, like he knows I need a practical reason to cling to. “My men are trained. The house is fortified.”
“I… I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”
I say it only because one of us has to. It’s my little role in this charade. I pretend I don’t want this, he insists I do, and then multiple orgasms follow.
A cold smile curves his lips. He pulls out his phone and navigates to a document I recognize immediately: our contract, the one with the amendment I signed while his face was between my legs.
“Section 12, paragraph 4,” he recites, not even looking at the screen. “‘In the event of security concerns, the surrogate agrees to temporary relocation to secure facilities as designated by the genetic donor.’”
My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious.”
“Your name is on the dotted line, Olivia,” he says. He steps away from me. “Pack a bag. Only essentials. Everything else can be replaced.”
I should argue. For my home, for my freedom. Contractual clauses can’t override basic human autonomy, can they?
But the memory of bullets is too fresh. And beneath his commanding tone lies something that gives me pause.
