Page 64 of This Wild Heart

Boom.

There wasn’t a single person in my life who’d ever put words to that. To the sick, twisted feeling that took root deep in my chest. Ididwant them to yell at me. Tell me I was horrible. Punish me even a little bit like I’d been doing in my head for months. But hearing it? Being willing to admit it? That was different. Especially on a night like this one. I gave her a warning look, something dangerous shuddering through my bones. “Anya …”

She raked a hand through her hair, eyes lingering on my face as she shook her head. “I’ll stop. I’m sorry if that was over the line.” She closed her eyes briefly, a reluctant grin tugging at the edges of her mouth. “Sometimes it’s hard to forget I’m not a real wife, and I don’t think the fake wives are allowed to say things like that.”

Like I fucking knew.

She didn’t feel fake. The kisses didn’t. The way her nails dug into my skin didn’t. The way she felt around me didn’t—tight and perfect and so damn responsive. But she was right. This wasn’t a real marriage, and now I had a very real child to deal with. Whether he was mine or not was yet to be determined.

At my lack of a response, Anya licked her lips and nodded across the hall toward her bedroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower while he’s sleeping. I didn’t … clean up afterward, and I’d like to do that before we leave tomorrow.”

She couldn’t meet my eyes, and the telltale blush on her cheeks told me more than anything else.

“You don’t need my permission,” I told her.

Her jaw tightened, eyes flashing briefly. “No, but I do need to make sure you won’t ignore him if he wakes up.”

I held her gaze. “Of course not.”

It was a valid concern, but I couldn’t find the words to tell her that. Everything inside of me felt so hollowed out, scraped clean, like I’d flinch away at the slightest touch. When she turned to leave, I saw the exhaustion stamped all over her face.

She didn’t ask for this either.

Alone in the room again, I tipped my head back and sighed heavily. “What a fucking day,” I muttered. Across the hall, the sound of the shower turned on, and I clenched my jaw, helpless against the mental image of Anya’s naked body underneath the water. Everything about her was long and lean and strong. Toned stomach and legs and arms. High, firm breasts.

A fucking dream.

And after tonight, she was probably more likely to slap the shit out of me than ever touch me again, and I couldn’t even really blame her.

With another sigh, I heaved myself off the bed and walked downstairs. Next to the couch was an unassuming little bassinet—a modern design in tan and white. Spike sat on the arm of the couch, tail flicking lazily as he stared down inside it.

“Don’t eat him,” I muttered. “That would really complicate things.”

He gave a slow turn of his head in my direction, and I swear, if a cat could roll its eyes, that one just did.

Instead of walking over toward the baby, I sprawled out on the opposite arm of the L-shaped couch, legs spread out wide and my throat tight with nerves as I waited for something—anything—to happen.

A few minutes passed, and the room remained quiet.

Eventually, the shower turned off.

After another ten minutes, Anya wandered down the steps, clad in her own clothes now. Her blond hair was slicked off her face, darker because it was wet.

“Still sleeping?” she asked.

I nodded.

Anya sighed quietly, and after a glance down at the baby, moved into the kitchen, fixing herself a late dinner from whatever leftovers Louise had in the fridge. I hadn’t eaten yet either, but the thought of putting food in my restless stomach didn’t sound wise.

With a plate in hand, she joined me in the family room, her disappointment in my reaction like a third fucking person sitting on the couch.

I was used to that. I’d learned to live with that asshole looking over my shoulder, judging my every freaking move. Disappointment was a weighty emotion. Worse than regret somehow because regret usually meant you were looking back on something you’d already done. An action you couldn’t change.

Disappointment was immediate. It hovered over everything like a cloud that wouldn’t go away. What made it even worse was that I didn’t blame her, but I felt like my arms and hands and legs were locked down, refusing to let me get any closer to him.

Like if I didn’t touch him, none of this was real.

My eyes closed because that was how it felt with Anya too. If I’d never touched her, if I’d kept my distance, kept things simple and easy like she’d asked, then we wouldn’t feel real either.

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