chapter 2
Sebastian's POV:
"Don't?" The laugh that escaped was ugly. Serrated.
"Don't what, darling? Don't think about you running back to that pretty boy?"
"Stop it!" She tried to twist away, and that just made it worse. Made the possessive thing in my chest roar and thrash.
I locked her beneath me, my superior strength rendering her struggles utterly futile—every attempt to push me away only highlighted the stark power disparity between us—and leaned in close.
"I could end him," I whispered against her ear. Felt her shudder. "One word and Adrian becomes a tragic accident. Car crash. Overdose. Disappearance. No one would question it."
"You're insane! He is your nephew," she breathed.
"For you? Absolutely." My free hand traced her collarbone, felt her pulse hammering. "And if he's not enough motivation, there's always your father or your friends,"
I continued, voice dropping lower. Crueler. "How well will they fare from here on out? That's entirely up to you."
"Stop." Her voice cracked.
"Then stop fighting me." I pulled back to look at her properly, and Christ, those eyes. Pools of blue terror and hatred and something else I couldn't quite name. "It's so simple, Elena. Just stay. Just be mine. "
She went still.
Not the stillness of surrender, but something worse—something hollow. Her body went limp beneath me, pliant as a doll, eyes vacant and unseeing. No fight. No fire. Just... emptiness.
"It's fine," she whispered, voice flat. Dead. "I'll stay. I'll be good."
A flicker of something cold twisted in my chest.
Christ, I hated that sound.
"That's not—" I pulled back further, hands hovering uselessly. "If you just listen, none of that has to happen. Do you understand? If you're good, if you stay—we'll have everything. I'll give you everything. We'll be happy."
The words tasted like ash even as I said them, coaxing and soft, trying to breathe life back into those extinguished eyes.
Fuck.
I couldn't do it. Not like this. Not with her lying there like a corpse.
I released her and stood, moving to the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped as I sat, elbows on my knees, hands raking through my hair.
"Is it really that unbearable?" The question came out rougher than I intended. "Being with me?"
I pulled out a cigarette, fingers unsteady as I brought it to my lips.
But before I could flick the lighter, her voice came from behind me—quiet, hollow, barely more than a whisper.
"I'm pregnant."
I turned so fast I nearly fell off the bed.
She was sitting up now, arms wrapped around her middle, eyes still on the wall instead of me.
"What?"
The cigarette fell from my numb fingers.
Pregnant.
Her laugh was cold, brittle. "Don't play stupid." She finally looked at me, and God, the contempt in those eyes could've flayed me alive. "The condoms. You think I wouldn't figure it out? You tampered with them."
I didn't deny it. Couldn't even muster the pretense of surprise.
She was right. Of course, she was right. But I didn't regret it. Not for a second.
What I hadn't expected was for it to actually work.
A child. Our child.
The rush of feeling that slammed through me was dizzying. Joy? Relief? Something fiercer, more primitive than either.
And beneath it all—cold, sobering gratitude that I'd stopped myself moments ago. That I hadn't forced her.
A laugh escaped before I could stop it—low, disbelieving, edged with sheer elation.
Her eyes flashed. The pillow hit me square in the face.
I didn't flinch. Didn't get angry. Just caught it as it fell, set it aside, and carefully—so carefully—pulled her into my arms. She went stiff, but I held on, gentle in a way I rarely was.
"So that's where you went today," I murmured against her hair. "The hospital."
"Where else?" Her voice was sharp, brittle. "You think I'd risk anything with what I've seen you do this past year? How stupidly you'd react?"
"You could've told me. Let me take you—"
"Trust you?" She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, and there was something cold and resolute in them. The answer was written there, clear as day.
I swallowed. She was right. Sabotaging the condoms—it was underhanded. Manipulative. The action of a desperate man.
But God help me, I didn't know what else to do. I'd tried everything else to keep her, and nothing worked.
Nothing except this.
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
She was still in my arms—but not willingly. Her body angled away, nightgown twisted and disheveled from when I'd pinned her down, hair falling across her face like a curtain. Hiding from me.
My heart hammered against my ribs as the pieces fell into place.
And I—Christ, I'd threatened her friends. Cornered her. Nearly forced her while she was pregnant with my child.
The tears on her lashes caught the light.
Fuck.
I'd made her cry.
I was so monumentally, catastrophically screwed.
I couldn't even look at her. "I'll—I'm going to wash up."
The bathroom was a blur. I scrubbed myself clean with near-violent efficiency, ran my fingers through my hair until it looked deliberately tousled instead of manic, splashed cold water on my face until my reflection looked less like a madman.
When I came out, I'd only wrapped a towel around my waist.
Strategic? Absolutely. I knew Elena well enough—she was nothing if not visual. And if my face and body were the only things I had going for me right now, I'd damn well use them.
She was still sitting on the bed, arms wrapped tight around herself, staring at nothing.
I climbed onto the mattress beside her, slow and careful. Reached for her hand.
She flinched but didn't pull away.
I guided her palm to my face, pressed it against my cheek.
"I'm sorry." My voice came out rougher than intended. "I fucked up. You can—punish me however you want. Okay?"