Page 20 of The Bane of a Sinner
After a while, I nestled closer, intertwining my fingers with his. “Do any of yours have stories?” I asked, glancing at the constellations and wildflowers inked across his arm.
He grinned, a secret flickering in his eyes. “Every single one,” he replied. “But you’ll have to earn them, one story at a time.”
“Challenge accepted,” I whispered, and in that small, ordinary moment, I realized I wanted a thousand moremoments just like this—with him, and the quiet promise of forever unfolding between us. Reaching for his hand, I traced my index finger along his forearm where a wicked-looking knife stabbed the heart of the wordTraitor. Wrapped around the name was a vine with roses, and wickedly sharp thorns cut into the word, almost as if the rose vine itself was causing more damage than the knife. For some reason, this particular tattoo always intrigued me, called to me on some level. I couldn’t explain it, but out of all his tattoos, this one was my favorite. “Tell me about this one.”
August’s breath caught—just the faintest hitch that might have gone unnoticed if I hadn’t been listening for it. His gaze dropped to where my finger lingered, a shadow darting behind his smile. For a moment, I wondered if I’d asked too much, pried a little too close to something tender and sharp beneath his skin.
He exhaled, his thumb brushing slow circles against my palm. “That one...” He hesitated, searching for the right words in the dust motes drifting through the lamplight. “It’s a bit of a long story. It’s a reminder that not everyone can be trusted. Someone I thought would always be on my side.” His voice was soft, careful, as if each word was a shard picked up and polished before setting it down between us. “But sometimes, the people you trust the most become the ones who cut you deepest.”
I traced the curves and thorns again, gentler now. “Do the roses mean something?”
He nodded, lips quirking with a bittersweet tilt. “Roses for what was beautiful. Thorns for what cut. I guess it’s a way of remembering that even the best things can turn, and that sometimes you have to let old things bleed out to make room for new growth.” His eyes met mine, earnest and open, and I felt the trust in that offering, the courage it took to let me see a hidden piece of his heart.
I squeezed his hand, anchoring him to the moment. “Thank you for telling me,” I murmured. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
A small, grateful smile flickered across his lips. “With you, it’s easier.” The silence pooled around us, not awkward but full—with truth, with acceptance, with the understanding that our stories, no matter how jagged, could twine together like vines in the sun.
And as I pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist, I realized that sometimes the bravest thing of all is letting someone trace the map of your scars and still believing they’ll stay.
Needing to use the bathroom, I got up from the couch; my hand went instantly to my mouth as I made a mad dash for the bathroom. Dropping to my knees, I had barely opened the lid before I emptied my stomach of all its contents. August rushed in after me, quickly turning on the water. Then, before I knew it, he was holding a cold washcloth to the back of my neck.
“Something you ate?”
Leaning against the toilet, I groaned. “I’m not sure.”
“Could you be pregnant?”
I smirked at that. “Why is it that’s the first thing men always ask when a woman throws up?”
August grinned. “Are you saying I’m not the first man to ask you that question?”
Leaning my head back against the bathroom wall, I closed my eyes and sighed. “No, you are the first.”
“I better be,” he grumbled under his breath before adding, “Maybe you should take a test to be sure? When was your last period?”
Frowning, I did the math quickly in my head and whispered, “Two weeks before I met your parents.”
“Baby, that was at the beginning of July. It’s August 12th.”
Looking up at him, I said, “Maybe you should go get that test.”
An hour later, August and I stood in the bathroom staring at five pregnancy tests. All saying the exact same thing.
I was pregnant.
It had been a little over a week since we both learned the truth, and waiting in the obstetrician’s office August found for me, I sat nervously fidgeting with my hands.
“What if the tests were wrong?”
August chuckled as he flipped through a magazine. “All five of them?”
“You know what I mean,” I snipped.
August only smiled, setting the magazine down before he reached for my hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles over my knuckles. “We’ll know for sure in a few minutes,” he said gently, his tone more soothing than I’d ever heard it.
A nurse called my name at last. My world seemed to narrow to a pinprick as August squeezed my hand, and we followed her into a pale blue room smelling faintly of antiseptic and powder. The doctor, warm but efficient, asked the usual questions and sent me for a quick test, promising results before we left.
When she returned, her smile was gentle and reassuring. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re definitely pregnant.”
