Three Years(23)

I look down and notice the foreign material feeling smooth against my skin. I balk when I realize someone has changed my clothes. I was wearing an old pair of stained sweats and a baggy T-shirt when I passed out, but now I’m dressed in a black silk nightgown, trimmed with black lace, that falls to my knees. What the fuck?

The thought of Dornan dressing me like a doll is almost more disturbing than the thought that I may be pregnant.

And that’s when I see the white packages stacked up in the windowsill next to the toilet. Pregnancy tests. Five of them. Left there to taunt me.

Motherfucker.

My hand itches to reach out and grab one, to tear the packaging and pee on the stick, but I resist. I’m not playing these fucking head games with him. Maybe I’m pregnant. Maybe I’m not. But right now, I’m almost dead, and that concerns me more.

I turn the tap on again, splashing water on my face. I freeze when I hear a movement in the bedroom, and turn the water off slowly, patting my face with a towel. Still holding the towel in front of me, I inch out of the room, and when I see the broad shoulders and dark hair of a man sitting in a wicker chair in the corner of the room, I freeze. Dornan?

No.

He turns, and I gasp.

“Jason?” I whisper. He unfolds himself from the chair and quickly covers the distance between us, ending up in front of me at arms length.

He doesn’t look right. Something is way off.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” he says solemnly. My mouth drops open in shock, and I don’t even see his hand flying toward my cheek until it’s already too late.

My head snaps back, and I stumble on my feet, going backward but managing not to fall. I back up as he advances, until the backs of my legs hit the bed.

“What are you doing?” I cry, trying to protect my face with my hands. He glances at the door, his expression unreadable, and then back at me. Something shifts in his expression, and I freeze. He holds a finger to his lips, gesturing for me to be quiet, and I can see the raw grief in his eyes as he approaches me. He points at his ear, then the closed door.

We’re being listened to. Somebody is outside that door right now. That much is apparent.

Time stands still for one long moment as he reaches his hand out, cupping my cheek. He runs his thumb along my lower lip, and as our eyes remain fixed on one another, he mouths the words I’m sorry.

I shake my head. I was the one who stormed out of his house all those months ago. I should be the one who’s saying sorry.

I love you, I mouth back. Lucky we’re not actually saying these words because the lump in my throat wouldn’t let me speak if I tried. Tears prick at my eyes and I brush them away impatiently.

He looks pained.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats silently, and as the door creaks open, he grabs my arm and throws me across the room. I land on my skinny ass with a dull thud, suddenly wishing it had more padding.

I struggle to my feet, heavy and still full of smack, when I see the reason for Jase’s sudden violence. Dornan is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a cruel smirk on his face as he stares me down.

I see movement in the corner of my eye and shift my attention to Jase, who is approaching me again with violence in his eyes.

“You killed my brothers, you fucking whore,” Jase yells, coming at me. I scream, scrambling to the other side of the bed as Dornan steps in front of his son.

“Hey,” he says, holding an arm out. “I’d like to do the same. But you can’t hurt her, son. She’s got something I need. Isn’t that right, baby mama?”

My heart sinks. There’s no good reason he’d stop Jase from pummeling me to death, other than the obvious - he’s protecting what’s inside me.

That’s the exact moment I realize he’s not lying about the pregnancy. Fuck.

Jase looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He’s a fucking excellent actor. He deserves an Oscar for this shit right here. Assuming he’s acting.

He grabs a handful of Dornan’s shirt and shoves him aside. “I’m gonna kill this fucking bitch, pop,” he spits, storming me. I huddle in the corner between the bed and the wall, my hands in front of me. It might be pretend, but I still don’t want to get fake-bashed. It hurts almost as much as being beaten up for real. He reaches for me but misses, a sharp yank on the back of his leather cut taking him away from me. Dornan pushes him into the wall, and I hear the plasterboard crack under the pressure of Jase’s head knocking into it. My first instinct is to run, to huddle in the bathroom, but instead I stay crouched in the corner, watching in sick fascination as Dornan raises his fist to his youngest son.