Page 62 of One Secret

Way to fucking go, Alesi. You damn well know better.

Taking my weight onto my arms so I don't crush Darcy against the edge of the tide pool, I can't bear to lift my face from her neck. Or look her in the eye. I lick the salt from her throat and smell the warmth of her skin...

Some men wouldn't care, I remind myself as if that somehow alleviates the blame. Thousands of them. Millions. All around the world. They have sex with a girl bare-back and then walk away from every repercussion they might have caused.

But I'm not one of them. I never have been.

Sex is a fucking privilege. With Darcy, it's a goddamn miracle. And, when gifted with something like that, you take your share of the responsibility. To stay healthy. To stay safe.

Darcy made it very clear on the plane that, when this is all over, she wants a clean break from me, from us. To put me in her rear-view mirror and never look back.

And I've just potentially ruined that for her.

Not wanting to disturb the soft little sighs beneath me, I stifle my groan of self-flagellation, squeeze my eyes shut, and just luxuriate in the feel of Darcy's soft middle pressed against mine. To think… of her growing round down there. Swelling with my kid inside of her. My baby.

Fuck me, I begin to wonder… Maybe this whole thing had been subconscious?

Some twisted impulse to keep her close? Get her knocked up so she can never completely leave me?

No...

It's true that I don't want her to go. That I loathe these "changes" she wants to make in her life. But pregnancy is too extreme. Even for my fucked-up subconscious.

There's no way it would try and force me—me!—into the role of father.

You wanted it once...

I try to shut that shit down but I'm too tired. So completely spent in Darcy's arms that I have no mental bandwidth left to fight against the whispered reminders.

Yes, once upon a time, I... dabbled... with the idea of fatherhood. Of kids. Of a family that I might one day be able to come home to. One that I would want to come home to.

But doesn't every little kid with a shitty upbringing yearn for something more postcard? For something kinder? Something loving?

Over the years since, the "kids" question has been answered for me; just taken clean out of my hands.

When you become a contract killer—when death is literally your profession—you realize that getting married and settling down just isn't in the cards anymore.

"Hi honey, I'm home! Just let me wash this blood off before dinner..."

Yeah, right.

Having kids had gone the way of running in the Olympics or being able to sprout wings and fly: nothing but a fantasy.

The reality of which would be an unwanted burden on a woman who has already drawn her boundaries. Who is leaving in twenty-four hours.

Making this entire moral dilemma a fucking moot point, don't you think?

God, I'm a selfish asshole.

'You're quiet...'

The muscles of my shoulder and upper arm twitch pleasantly as Darcy drifts her fingertips over my skin. She strokes gently, soothingly. After the raw, almost aggressive, chemistry we just shared, some humanity is more than welcome.

'Everything all right?' she asks.

I have to clear my throat before I have any chance of my words being more than a jagged garble.

'Yeah...' I grunt, having to swallow again.

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