Page 18 of One Night with the Werewolf
I take the stairs two at a time until I’m standing in front of her, and she’s backing away onto the landing. But before she can get far, I grab her by the shoulders and stop her. Her eyes grow as big as saucers, and she flinches.
What does she think of me that she would flinch away?
“I’m sorry,” she says for the millionth time, ducking her head so she’s no longer looking at me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop.” I relax my hold on her, but don’t let her go. “You don’t have to apologize to me.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Gently, so as not to startle her, I raise one hand to run my thumb down her cheek. Seeing her up close again, every protective instinct in me roars to life. I need to comfort her. Make her pain go away. Show her everything will be all right.
As if I’ve summoned them, fresh tears roll down Emelia’s cheeks. She squeezes her eyes closed, buckling forward as a sob takes her. Without preamble, I open my leather jacket and wrap my arms around her, pulling her in close just like I did the last time she cried. She’s stiff all over, but I hold her anyway, rubbing her back.
“Don’t worry,” I say into her hair, cradling her head against me. “We will figure this out. Together. I promise.”
At last, the tightness in her body fades, and she collapses into my arms. There we go. I take on her weight as her legs go out from underneath her.
“Let’s get you inside,” I say. “Sit down and talk, okay?”
She nods, clearly unable to get any words out. I keep one arm around her, supporting her as I twist the doorknob and open it. Then I lead her inside, where a small kitchen sits on the left and a living room on the right. There, that couch is the spot.
I guide Emelia over to it and we sit down together. She draws away from me, bringing her legs up onto the couch to hug them with her arms. It’s a defensive position, which the wolf doesn’t like. She still doesn’t trust me.
“When did you find out?” I ask.
“I called you as soon as… well.” She reaches over to the side table and produces a plastic baggie. Inside it is a pregnancy test. It very clearly displays two pink lines side by side.
No doubt about it. She has my baby growing inside her, and she’s at least eight weeks along now.
My brain pivots to problem-solving mode. I need to fix this, this lack of trust between us, and show her that I’m here for her no matter what. And then we’ll proceed to deciding what she wants to do about it.
“I’m not upset with you,” I tell her, turning on the couch so I’m facing her. She keeps her head in her hands, not looking at me. The shame is radiating off her. “This isn’t your fault, Emelia. Shit happens. I’m the one who should have used a condom.”
She doesn’t speak.
“I’m here. I’m here no matter what. All right? We can figure this out together.”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” Emelia finally says, squeezing her knees tighter against her. “I know what I’m supposed to do.”
I stare at her, not sure what she means. “‘Supposed’ to do?”
“I’m supposed to get an abortion, right?”
It’s like a fucking punch the way she says it, resigned and defeated. As if it’s already decided. As if she has no part in it.
“Why would you say that?” I ask. “Who’s telling you that?”
At last, she looks up at me, confused.
“Isn’t that what you want?”
WhatIwant? I haven’t even thought about it.
“What I want doesn’t matter in the least in this situation.” I lean down so I can really look into her eyes. They’re huge and brown and so devastatingly sad, like her whole world has collapsed around her. “I am here to support you no matter what you choose to do.”
She stares at me like I just spoke in a foreign language.
“There’s no way you want another kid,” she says, voice hoarse from crying.
