Page 23 of Wicked Sinner
CAESAR
The words hit me like a physical blow, stopping me dead in my tracks as I stare at Bridget. For a moment, I'm not sure I heard her correctly. The garage is silent except for the sound of our ragged breathing, the tension between us crackling like a live wire, and I feel like the world has just tilted off its axis.
"What did you just say?" My voice comes out rougher than I intended, barely more than a growl. She’s said it twice already, but I’m hearing things. I must be.
Bridget's face is flushed, her chest heaving as she glares at me with those beautiful hazel eyes that are now blazing with fury and something else—fear, maybe. She crosses her arms over her chest, and I can see her hands trembling slightly. She’s been screaming and spitting vitriol at me throughout this entire fight, but now I can see she’s on the verge of crumbling.
It makes me want to go to her, but I don’t. Ican’t. I feel frozen in place.
"You heard me," she says, her voice shaking but defiant. "I'm pregnant."
Pregnant.The word echoes in my head, and suddenly everything else falls away. Konstantin’s dinner party, the womenhe's been parading in front of me, the pressure to marry someone suitable—none of it matters anymore. Nothing matters except the woman standing in front of me and the child she's carrying.
My child.
A surge of something primal and possessive tears through me, so intense it nearly brings me to my knees. This changes everything.Everything. I don't give a fuck about Konstantin's plans or his suitable potential brides or what anyone else thinks is best for the Genovese name. Bridget is carrying my heir, my blood, and that makes her mine in a way that goes deeper than any marriage contract or political alliance.
"How long have you known?" I ask, taking a step toward her. She immediately takes a step back, and I force myself to stop moving, to not crowd her, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance between us.
"A few days," she admits, her chin lifting defiantly. "Maybe a week."
A week. She's known for a week and didn't tell me. Didn't even try to find me. The thought sends a spike of anger through me, but it's quickly overshadowed by something else—a fierce, overwhelming need to protect her. To claim her. To make sure she and our child are safe and taken care of.
"Why didn't you call me?" I demand.
She lets out a bitter laugh. "Call you? With what number, Caesar? You fucked me on the hood of your car and drove away without so much as a backward glance. You didn't exactly leave me your contact information."
The accusation stings because it's true. I'd been so focused on keeping things simple, on not getting entangled, that I hadn't even considered the possibility of consequences. I’ve never needed to worry about them before.
Before that night, I’d never fucked a woman without putting a condom on first. I didn’t even bother asking her if she was on the pill. The raw need to be inside of her, to feel her wet and hot around me, was too much.
Looking at her now, seeing the hurt and anger in her eyes, I realize what a fucking idiot I was. But I don’t feel any regret. Not a single hint of it.
"You could have found me," I say, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know how hollow they sound.
"Oh, I did find you," she snaps, and there's something in her voice that makes my blood run cold. "After I got the positive test, I did some digging. Googled your name. Found out exactly who your father was. Found out what kind of family you come from."
Fuck.My jaw tightens as I realize what this means. She knows. She knows about the family business, about what I am, what I represent. And from the look on her face, she's not impressed.
"So you know," I say quietly.
"I know enough." Her voice is hard, unforgiving. "I know that your father had mafia connections and died under mysterious circumstances. I have some idea of what that means. And I know that I want nothing to do with it."
The words hit me like a slap. I've dealt with plenty of people who were afraid of my name, my reputation, but somehow hearing it from her—from the woman who let me fuck her with such wild abandon just three weeks ago—cuts deeper than I expected. And she doesn’t sound afraid. She sounds disgusted.
Like she’s ashamed she let me touch her. Like I’m something to get as far away from as possible.
"Bridget—"
"No." She holds up a hand, stopping me. "I'm not stupid, Caesar. I know what men like you do. I know what kind of life you live. And I'm not letting my child anywhere near it."
Her child.Notourchild.Herchild. The distinction sends a surge of rage through me so intense that I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her, from shaking her into sense.
"It's not just your child," I say, my voice deadly quiet. "It's mine too. My heir."
"Your heir?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. It's a baby, Caesar. A human being. Not some pawn in your mafia games. Whatever kind of archaic bullshit world you live in, I don’t want any part of it."
"You're right," I say quietly, taking another step toward her. This time, she doesn't back away, too angry to retreat. "It's not a pawn. It's my blood. My legacy. And you're carrying it."
