Ramona

Pure, inexplicable rage has been flowing through your veins quite regularly this past week, and taming your ugly mood at every minor inconvenience has become a major challenge.

You push your scrambled egg around the scarcely touched plate in front of you, swallowing the watery saliva that keeps filling up your mouth to warn you of impending doom. This sickly feeling has been niggling away in your body since you begrudgingly woke up an hour ago, and it was only getting progressively worse.

As was your anger.

“Could you two chew with your mouths closed?” you carefully scold, trying not to sound like an ass. “You both sound like the inside of a washer-dryer.”

They both smirk at you, finding themselves particularly amusing. “Yes, mom,” they respond in unison.

You click your tongue, biting back a bitter retort. Usually, you’d bounce off of them, and the three of you would be getting on Sylus’s nerves instead, a task that requires a tonne of skill since he has more patience than most. You could do with a bit of his steely composure this morning.

He was sitting beside you, scarlet eyes scanning the newspaper through his thin glasses that were perfectly perched at the end of his nose. His silvery hair was mussed and in disarray, and his robe was open just enough at the lapels that you caught a nip-slip.

That morning look never fails to make you ravenous, no matter how many times you’ve willingly fallen victim to it, and it often led to a trip back to bed together for several more hours.

This morning, though, the smell of his coffee was overwhelming you, the heat from his body beside yours was making you feel feverish, and his hand on your thigh beneath the table felt like a lead weight pinning you to your seat, overstimulating you in the worst of ways. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold yourself together.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Luke and Kieran greedily wolf down the rest of their fried feasts, both gathering their plates and cutlery to take back to the kitchen so they can get ready to head out into the city to terrorise today’s rivals of Onychinus. Once they’re gone and you’re alone with the human embodiment of a hot water bottle, Sylus sets down his paper and closes the dining room door with a mere flick of his wrist.

“Something the matter?” he asks, already seeing it in your demeanour.

You don’t want to lie to him, and you know he would see straight through it anyway. “Honestly? I don’t know,” you mutter truthfully. “I just feel like I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

He stares for a moment, studying you like he’s trying to read your body. “You look a little flushed,” he finally assesses, touching your clammy cheek with the backs of his fingers.

You shrug. “It’s probably nothing,” you brush off, taking a sip of your water and pushing away your full plate of food. “I might just go lie down for a bit.”

A week had passed since that morning, and you were truly starting to freak out now.

Every morning without fail, you were bringing your breakfast back up, hiding away in the most neglected bathroom in the property.

Your hips were housing a consistent ache, and there was a small panging feeling that kept happening in the lowest part of your abdomen that was noticeable enough to make you flinch a few times. It wasn’t painful, but it was hard to ignore when every other part of your body felt like it was morphing into something foreign. It’s like you’re becoming someone else.

At first, you were expecting your period to appear and kick you in the ass, putting the unusual symptoms down to a change in hormones. That was four days ago, and there has been zero sign of Mother Nature and her attack on your reproductive organs.

In the back of your mind, you knew. It was like a little voice locked away somewhere, trying to reason with you that the answer to this issue was clear as day.

The problem was, you didn’t want to listen to it.

You refused.

Dragging yourself off of the tiled floor for the third time this morning, you rinse out your mouth under the tap, your hands shaking on either side of the basin as you do. Physically, you feel rough. Mentally, you feel terrified.

You take several deep, steadying breaths before leaving the bathroom, taking the lengthy trek through the dark halls to get back to the bedroom you share with Sylus. You have all intentions of slipping back into bed and sleeping this morning’s vomit session off.

When you open the door, though, your plan is immediately out the window as you walk in on Sylus perched on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other. He has one hand splayed out on the mattress behind him, holding up his slightly reclined body so that he has a full view of you, and the other hand is holding out a small paper bag.

“For you,” he states.

You frown, not moving to take it. “Am I forgetting an anniversary or something?”

“Or something,” he drawls cryptically.

Hesitantly, you take the small bag from him, peering inside. You only catch a glimpse, but you don’t want to look any longer than a fraction of a second.

Sylus stands up from the bed, looking down at you expectantly. “I think you’re forgetting to tell me something, kitten,” he says quietly.

Thrusting the bag against his chest in a blind panic, you storm around the bed to put some space between yourself and the abundance of pregnancy tests now nestled in his hands again. “I am not pregnant.”

In this case, ignorance was the only bliss you could get, and you were happy to keep ignoring the very possible chance that a problem was growing in your womb.

Sylus turns to face you, a hand on his hip. “And you’re sure about this?”

“Very,” you bite back, not looking at him. You swing open the door to the walk-in wardrobe, tearing off your t-shirt that smells faintly of the breakfast you’ve been throwing up for the past thirty minutes. You’re unsure if Sylus caught the little gag that happened automatically, but if he did, he feigns ignorance.

“So you’ve already taken a test?” he asks, following you and leaning against the doorframe. He watches you change unashamedly, a glint of desire in his eyes even at the sight of you in mismatched underwear.

“I don’t need to,” you respond simply. “I’m not pregnant.”

You slip on one of your short, silk nightgowns, despite it being the middle of winter. An uncomfortable heat had been bubbling inside you for days, and too much clothing touching your skin made you want to peel the skin from your bones.

The fabric is clean, smelling sweetly of florals. It’s how you loved your clean laundry to smell.

Emphasis on the word loved.

The second the smell wafted into your nose and attacked your heightened senses, you were gagging again, quickly pulling the nightgown off and slipping past your boyfriend to get to the en-suite. Your knees thudded hard against the marbled floor as you heaved up the last scraps of your stomach contents.

In the midst of your violent gagging, you felt two large hands graze your clammy neck as Sylus gathered up your hair, holding it in one hand and rubbing your back with the other. He doesn’t say anything, his presence enough of a comfort in a moment like this.

When you finally sit back on the heels of your feet, you start to cry. Well, sob is a more accurate description. You know that this isn’t right, and you know that a pregnancy test is going to bring you a result you’re not feeling very prepared for.

Sylus used some tissue to wipe just under your chin, tossing it into the toilet and pulling the flush to discard of your regurgitated breakfast.

“Here,” he murmurs, sitting beside you and carefully pulling you onto his lap. He presses a feather light kiss to your damp forehead. “I’ve got you.”

He did have you. He’s always had you, there was no doubt in your mind about that. But would he have you heavy and round with pregnancy? Would he have you hormonal and unable to control your emotions? Would he have you screaming and sweating through labour?

You’ve always assumed that his domesticity only extended to you, Luke and Kieran—despite his refusal to admit to the latter two. He’s lead a dangerous, thrilling life thus far, one that a baby just wouldn’t fit into.

And if you are pregnant, you won’t fit into it, either.

“I’ve always had a knack for knowing what you’re thinking,” Sylus says quietly, cutting through your thoughts. “You think this would be a bad thing, right?”

You groan in frustration, pushing your face into the side of his neck. “It would be.”

He hums, lips resting against your messy hair. “How have you arrived at that conclusion?”

Rearing your head back, you frown at him like the grouchy ball of hormones you are. “Maybe because we live in the base of your organisation that’s in the sights of every violent crime ring in this damn city. Maybe because the N109 Zone has to be the worst place on earth to raise a child, and maybe I don’t want our child to become the target that you and I have been for so many years. Maybe because I’m already scared for it, and I don’t even know if it’s even in there yet.”

Sylus doesn’t blink at your rant, saying nothing until he knows you’re finished. There isn’t a hint of worry or stress in his eyes, and it brings you the same amount of comfort as it does irritation.

Doesn’t he think the same?

“What else?” he asks calmly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“That’s it,” you pout, making him chuckle softly.

“No it isn’t,” he presses. “What else, sweetie?”

The irritation soon turns to tears again, the flood of conflicting emotions making you feel crazy. If this is what pregnancy is going to be like, he’s surely going to grow tired of you.

His gentle fingers, the same ones that have pulled many strings and triggers in this city, continue the same motion of smoothing your unruly hair behind your ear. It’s grounding enough to push the whispered words from your trembling lips.

“I’m going to be a nightmare.”

Sylus still doesn’t react, as if he already knew exactly what you were going to say. He’s quiet for a moment, pulling you against him again so that your temple is rested against his collarbone.

“First of all, I love you. I love you happy. I love you angry. I love every version of you, and that’s not going to change,” he murmurs, looking down at you. “Understand?”

You nod, sniffing softly. Despite your insecurities, you’ve never doubted his love. He’s never let a day pass without expressing it.

“Secondly, we are not tied to this place. We are not tied to anything but each other.” He uses his thumb to wipe at your tears. “I will never let a soul come within a mile radius of you or our future family if they have even a passing thought of ill intention. I can guarantee you of that without any doubt. But if you want to get away from here, I could have this whole place packed up and a jet on standby before lunch. You say the word, and we go. Anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”

The tears keep falling, but he catches every one of them.

“And thirdly, you haven’t done a test yet. At this moment in time, this is all hypothetical.”

“I can’t do it,” you mumble pathetically.

Sylus chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “There’s no I in this. It’s you and me, no matter what. I’ve got you in this. Every part.”

You fiddle with the fabric of his T-shirt in a futile attempt to distract yourself, but a nerve wracking question won’t stop bouncing around your mind.

“What if it’s positive? Is this even something you want?” you whisper.

He curls his finger beneath your chin, tilting your face up to lock eyes with you. “I told you that I love every version of you. That includes a mini one, too. I couldn’t think of anything that would put me off of an extension of you and me.” He pauses a moment, swallowing noticeably as his eyes flicker between yours. “Would you trust me as a father?”

The sudden vulnerability in his quiet tone knocks every remaining ounce of doubt out of you. You frown at him. “Are you joking? I trust that you would keep a dust mite safe, warm and fed if I asked you to.”

Sylus snorts, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He stands up from the floor with you in one arm, retrieving the bag of tests from the bedroom before returning to sit you on the vanity in the en-suite. Pulling one of the boxes out of the bag, he reads through the instructions thoroughly. “Ready?” he asks.

You take a deep breath, expelling any last remnants of fear and uncertainty. “Ready.”

“Those are definitely child bearing hips,” the invasive old woman states, studying your waist. “If you’re lucky, my son might be able to get some twins in there. That’ll be a perfect head start to get me to seven grandchildren.”

Typically, you’d be horrified by the way the woman seemed to be planning to breed you, but you were hardly listening. Your mind was too busy trying to work out how you ended up here, in an expensive hotel, wearing an expensive wedding dress, hating every single second of the big day that hasn’t even truly begun yet.

Chris wasn’t a bad man. You believe that he does love you, and he’s kind and generous, not a nasty bone in his body. He should make you happy.

But that isn’t quite the case.

Chris knows what he wants in life. He wants a wife and a family. The perfect marriage that his parents have. That’s what he told you when you first met, and you thought that was sweet. Right up until you met his parents.

His father is a miserable old man who works a full time job, and his mother cooks, cleanes, tidies and shops all day every day. She babies the man, as well as your fiancé, and that’s how they all liked it. That’s how he wants married life to be for him.

In his eyes, you’d be the perfect wife. In your eyes, you’d be a housemaid.

The second that realisation had hit should have been the moment you called this wedding off. You were already having doubts right after the big, public proposal, where you felt you couldn’t say no in front of his entire family. By that point, you’d only been dating for 8 months, but he’d apparently known you were the woman to fulfill his dreams the moment he’d met you.

The three months of wedding planning had induced migraines like you’ve never had before, and the stress and uncertainty has caused you to drop a little bit of weight, which is why this uncomfortable dress was looser than the last time you’d had a fitting.

You just didn’t care.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Chris, and didn’t have any love for him. Maybe if things had been different in your past, he would undeniably be the one. Maybe you wouldn’t be contemplating climbing down the tree outside of the huge window to the right of you and running into the arms of the man you hadn’t seen in two years.

Sylus was everything to you, which is what ultimately led you to leaving him. You loved him, mind, body and soul. So much so that his dangerous lifestyle had become a burden on you.

In the beginning, you thought you knew exactly what to expect from a relationship with him. You knew there would be worries and sleepless nights, but the extent of those worries were more than you could handle. You had a consistent pain in your chest whenever he wasn’t with you, and had developed such a severe case of anxiety that you had been recommended therapy. Your mind was a scary place of what ifs. A constant stream of paranoia that was driving you to a breaking point.

You didn’t take any comfort from the fact that he could heal himself in a heartbeat. All you could picture in your mind was him bleeding out, or missing body parts, or being completely void of life somewhere where no one could find his body.

You had to get out, and he didn’t stop you.

It hurt. He didn’t question you. He just let you go.

You blink out of your thoughts at a soft knock on the door of your suite. Cathy, your fiancé’s mother, opens the door a crack and pokes her head through it, concealing you from view as if you were a rare creature she was hiding. You don’t hear her quiet bickering, but you can tell by the way her back is tensed up that something is wrong.

She turns to address you, putting on a false smile. “Don’t panic, but one of those useless little flower girls has torn her dress,” she says, rolling her eyes a little.

She could’ve told you that the building was on fire, and you wouldn’t have felt one iota of interest. 

“I’ll go and sort it. You stay here until I get back. You don’t want my precious baby boy to see you in your dress before the wedding,” she grins before slipping out through the door.

The gag you managed to suppress at her description of her grown, adult son only enhances your already present nausea. You move for the window the second the door clicks shut, and push it wide open, practically hanging out of it for some air.

One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.

“I don’t want this,” you whisper to yourself, speaking it into the universe. 

Suddenly, a bird takes flight from the tree in front of you, right over your head with a loud squawk. You startle, stumbling back into the room and knocking over an untouched glass of champagne, which fizzes and trickles right down the skirt of your dress. It makes you panic, but not because you’ve ruined the dress. 

Because it’s made you aware of the damn thing again.

You burst into the en-suite and slam the door shut, tearing it off of your body so viciously that your uncomfortably pointy nails impale the skin of your arms. That doesn’t stop you, though. Not until the fabric that’s been drowning you is pooled at your feet on the marble floor.

You glance in the mirror above the sink, the glass showing you less of a stranger, and more of a lost soul. It’s definitely you staring back now without that damn dress on, but it’s like you’re in limbo. Stuck between being free, or being a wife to a man who wants a stand in mommy to feed him and wash his underwear.

Where do you go from here?

The sound of the suite door opening and closing through the en-suite door brought you back to reality. You were standing in nothing but the lingerie, corset and garter you were wearing beneath the discarded silk gown, and still had a pair of toe-crippling heels on your feet, but you were not putting that tent back on.

Without any shame at being extremely underdressed, you open the en-suite door and walk out before you could lose your nerve. “Listen, Cathy, I’m really sorry, but I can’t marry—”

Your words caught in your throat at the sight of a man lounging in one of the leather armchairs. A man who you hadn’t seen in so long, but who still managed to make your heart skip several beats. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my name, sweetie,” he drawls, a slow smirk dragging the corner of his lips upwards. 

“Sylus,” you breathed automatically.

“Good girl,” he mutters with a wink. “So you’re not completely brainwashed, then.”

You blink a few times, wondering if this is actually happening. “What are you…how did you know where—”

“Don’t insult my ability to find you,” he interrupts incredulously. He moves his right ankle off of his left knee, and stands to his full 6’3 height. The room instantly feels half the size it had before he arrived. “If there’s one thing I excel at, it’s knowing where my people are at all times.”

He takes a step towards you, and you take an uncertain step back. You don’t know what to make of this sudden visit. Or of the implication that you were still his.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“Neither should you,” he replies instantly, folding his arms across his chest. 

You frown at him. “It’s my wedding day.”

“Is it?” he questions, cocking a brow as his gaze sweeps over you. “I’m no expert on the latest fashion trends, kitten, but I wouldn’t walk down that aisle in this attire.”

Oh god.

With a gasp, you hurried for the large bed where a complimentary robe lay folded on a pillow. Before you could grab it to cover yourself up, the garment rose, wrapped in the swirling red tendrils of Sylus’s Evol. For a second, you thought he was going to make you stand in your underwear against your will, but he effortlessly manipulated the fabric so that it came around your back, draping over your shoulders and tying it at the front. You push your arms into the sleeves, feeling like you can’t breathe again.

“You have no right to tell me that I shouldn’t be here,” you say firmly, trying to steady your hands in the fluffy pockets of the robe. “I do not belong to you. You let me go.”

Sylus’s face darkens a little, but he doesn’t appear threatening. He appears bothered by your words.

“Let you go?” he repeats quietly. “You make it sound as if I had you locked away in a little cage.”

A shaky sigh falls from your lips. “You know what I mean. You didn’t stop me.” The tears prickling your eyes were like little pins. It had been a long time since you cried over him, but having him so close makes the emotions resurface. “How can I be yours if you let me leave so easily.”

“You have a part of me that I’ll never get back. You will always be a part of me,” he admits without hesitation. “How many times did I tell you that I was never going to control you?” he asks rhetorically. “I told you that whatever you needed, you would have. Whatever you wanted, you would be given.”

He slowly approaches you again, but you don’t back away this time, letting him speak. His hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear, a gesture that leaves you forgetting how to breathe for a moment.

“Your words to me that day were that you needed to go,” he murmurs. “You told me you wanted peace from your fears and anxiety, and that you couldn’t have that relief with me.” He swallows before continuing, his voice lowering. “I meant it when I told you I wasn’t going to be your voice, your mind, or your keeper. We were a couple. I was not your dictator.”

“So you wanted me to go?” you whisper, not sure that you want an answer to that question.

But you see the answer in his eyes before he even speaks. He never did show a lot of emotion, but you could always see through him. It was oddly comforting that you still had the ability.

“I couldn’t have wanted anything less,” he breathes, his towering frame hanging over you. “What I did want was your truth, but I wanted you to want to confide in me about your worries.”

“I did want to,” you sniffle a little defensively. You never thought you’d get the chance to have this conversation with him. “But what would it have changed? You are who you are, and you do what you do.”

“You think I wouldn’t have tweaked my life for you?” he asks. “I would move skyscrapers if they were blocking your view of a cloud. I told you, and I meant it. Whatever you wanted. Whatever you needed.”

With your face buried in your hands, you sink down onto the edge of the bed, resting your elbows on your thighs. This is too much for you, and the overwhelming feeling of longing and guilt causes you to sob. 

This was your fault. You ran from your fears instead of letting him soothe them. You ran from your relationship because you couldn’t see past the terror. You ran from a man who wanted you, and landed in the arms of a man who wanted you to be a perfect housewife.

You can hear him moving, but you can’t stop the wave of distress as it pours out of you. He crouches down before you, his hands resting on the mattress either side of you.

“If you want me to go, then tell me,” he whispers. “I’ll go. But I’m here to keep my promise to you. You spoke the words, and I came to offer you what you want.”

I don’t want this.

He’d heard those hushed words you’d spoken into the air merely ten minutes ago. The work of Mephisto, no doubt.

He’d heard you say you didn’t want this wedding, and he came in minutes to aid you with whatever you did want.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper hoarsely, moving the heels of your palms from your eyes to your temples, trying to soothe your rapid heart rate. “I don’t…I don’t know what I want.”

“Yes you do,” he murmurs. “You just don’t want to voice it.”

You feel yourself shrink at his accurate assessment. He could see through you, too. You want him. You want your life back. You want to be you again, with him at your side. But you don’t have the right to want any of that. “I’m a terrible person.”

Sylus chuckles softly. “You’re preaching to the choir here, sweetie,” he teases, nudging your knee with his. “You’re not a terrible person for wanting better things for yourself. You are not someone’s dream house slave. You are a free woman, with a mind of your own, and your own desires for your future.”

You finally meet his gaze, feeling a pang of warmth in your soul at his words. He never saw you as someone who should dote on him. You were his equal, not putty to put in a mould. He didn’t want to change you.

He just wanted to love you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, sniffling again.

Sylus shakes his head. “Do not apologise for going after what you want. You wanted to leave, and you had every right to,” he says calmly. “And if you want to return, I can make it happen in a heartbeat. I just need you to start telling me what you want, kitten.”

You take a shaky breath, opening your mouth to answer him, but flinching when the door to the suite opens up. Jumping to your feet, you spin around, expecting to see an angry looking Cathy, or a confused looking Chris.

Instead, you see two men who feel as much like home as the man at your back does.

“Hate to interrupt,” Luke says with a smirk, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway, looking the opposite of put out by his own interruption.

“There’s a man-child and his mommy on their way up here, wondering who owns the badly parked Sedan outside,” Kieran finishes his twin’s sentence, grinning at his boss.

Sylus scoffs at the remark. “I guess we better move it, then,” he says calmly before looking down at you and holding his hand out. “Will I be taking another passenger?”

You stare down at his hand, expecting to feel some sort of hesitation or doubt. But you don’t. You want this, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel guilty for wanting better for yourself.

Your hand slips into his large, warm one as his fingers lock between yours without any indication of moving unless absolutely necessary. 

This man is what you want. This life with him is what you need.

“Yes,” you whisper. “That’s what I want.”