Page 57 of Entangled By You
I’d know that voice anywhere.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. I shove my bedroom door open, heart lodged in my throat, only to be met with emptiness. The bed is still unmade from this morning. The blinds are tilted just the way I left them.
“What the hell…” The whisper barely makes it out.
Spinning, I cross the hall in two quick strides, shove the next door wide, and stop dead.
“Pierce, what the fuck are you doing here?”
His head jerks toward me, eyes wide, guilt flashing before anything else. A box of diapers tumbles from his hands, landing heavy on the rug at his feet.
A rug that wasn’t there before. Blush-pink, checkered, and plush enough, I want to curl my toes into it. My gaze drags upward, across the rest of the room.
My nursery is painted, furnished, and filled with boxes of unopened baby items. Nothing like the blank space I left just days ago.
“You’re not supposed to be home,” he says, voice rough and tired, like he’s been at it for hours.
“Right back atcha.” The words fly out sharp and breathless, but his mouth curves, just slightly. A sparkle flickers in his soft eyes.
“So thisisstill my home, Princess?”
Heat rises up my neck at the nickname, at the hope braided through the question, but I ignore it with all the grace of anelephant in stilettos. My words tumble out in a rush. “When did you do all this? How? Why?”
“You wouldn’t talk to me.”
“So you broke in to paint and decorate?”
It should infuriate me. Should send me into a storm of anger, with a lecture on boundaries, trespassing, and trust. But instead, I just stand there, my throat tight, because the longer I look around, the more my anger frays into something a lot like forgiveness.
Because he did it right. The board I kept tucked away on my laptop—he brought it to life. Every detail. The furniture I saved in a cart but never bought. The paint I’d spent an hour at the hardware store picking out—all of it.
It’s beautiful and just as I imagined.
SAY IT
PIERCE
The good news:she no longer looks like she wants to maim me for breaking intoourhouse. The bad news: even from across the room, only a week apart, I can read the strain written all over her.
The dark circles under her eyes look like bruises. Her hair’s twisted up in a knot that’s half falling out. Her nail polish is chipped to hell, her fingers restless even now, like she’s been picking at them while her mind wanders aimlessly. She’s wearing two different earrings—probably didn’t even notice—but I did. And every disheveled detail, every sign of exhaustion, punches straight through me. It makes me hate myself more than I thought possible. Because I know I’m the reason she looks like this.
I don’t think. My body moves before my brain can tell me she’ll push me away. I cross the space in three strides, ignoring the widening of her eyes and the stiffening of her shoulders. Before she can command me to stop, I’ve got her in my arms.
She fits against me like she always has, except now her rounded belly presses between us, forcing me to hold her carefully. Still, I haul her as close as I can, clinging as if I hold ontight enough, the cracks between us might fuse back together. My face finds her hair, breathing in that faint sweetness that’s all her.
“You haven’t been taking care of yourself, baby,” I whisper against her temple, my voice fraying at the edges.
She exhales, a sound caught between surrender and protest, and slowly her body softens against mine. The tension in her muscles loosens, her hands finding my shirt and curling in the fabric like maybe she needs the anchor, too.
“I’m fine, Pierce. Just… haven’t been sleeping well. That’s normal for pregnant women pushing into their third trimester.”
I click my tongue, lifting her chin with my fingers so her eyes can’t hide. God, those eyes. Piercing ice, emotive, the ones I pray she passes down to our daughter. “That’s not what it is, and you damn well know it.”
Her lips press together, the tiniest tremble breaking through her practiced calm. And damn me, but her in my arms, that sassy mouth spinning excuses, it feels like home. Like catching my breath after a gun fight.
Which makes the next part worse.
Pulling away from her warmth feels like tearing myself open. My knees almost buckle with the loss, and I’d let them drop to the floor and beg at her feet if I thought she’d wave a white flag and let me come crawling back home. But she hasn’t said the word. She hasn’t made it clear. So instead, I step back, rubbing at the ache ripping across my chest as the light dims in her gaze.
