Page 147 of Please Open Me
Sebastian
I wasn’t supposed to bring up Mason’s pregnancy—not until she did. But she was the captain of the hot-mess express, and promises always felt thinner when the train was already rolling.
When I dragged her up to my room, I expected her to collapse. Instead, she cried for half an hour, begging me not to leave. I reassured her the whole time, and the sound of her pleading made something ache in me I would never admit aloud. It pulled me back to the first time she was pregnant with Rosie, to those early months when nightmares of being abandoned woke her in a sweat. Back then, in Lyon, those fears had been almost adorable. After years of pining and feeling unlovable myself, having her wake and cling to me fed my bruised ego.
I told her to call whenever she woke and needed reassurance. Those calls came too often, and the six-hour time difference didn’t help. Slowly, Mason’s constant neediness began to annoy me.
She finally wore herself out. Her breathing evened; I tucked her in and came downstairs, intending to bury myself in video games. But I couldn’t sit still. My hands needed work, something useful, and there was no way Mason would wake up to an empty house. So I stayed in the kitchen.
Did I enjoy cooking? Absolutely not. I barely enjoyed eating. Until recently, the culinary height of my ambition had been unseasoned chicken, slightly overcooked minute rice, microwaved vegetables, and smoothies. But I wanted to be a better partner for Cameron and Mason; learning to cook seemed preferable to doing the dishes. Fuck the dishes.
I watched a video on making spaghetti from scratch, not the jarred kind, and decided it looked simple enough. I’d only given the house food poisoning once before; this felt within my range. The video said to brown the onions and garlic, add the tomato paste, then the tomatoes, seasonings, and a little chicken stock, a secret ingredient I would never confess to Lucian and Mason.
I’d cooked enough to sense when something was off, but Dale’s words still echoed in my skull, and I couldn’t keep my mind on the food. Were we really free of the Sons of Christ? How deep did their roots run? How far would Dale go to keep Mason under his thumb? I’d wanted out of Hartwood for a while. If I kept Mason here in Portland–kept her with me–would she finally be safe? She couldn’t go far with my baby growing in her.
A grin slipped across my face before I could stop it. Despite the danger, despite the cult, despite everything, I had made a baby with Mason. The smile widened and, without thinking, I did a stupid little shimmy in the middle of the kitchen.
I’m having another baby.
Cameron probably wanted a boy. Me? I wanted another little girl.
A bitter scent and a wisp of smoke snapped my daydream. My onions and garlic had slipped past golden and were flirting with black. I hissed curses, scooped out the worst of the char, and admitted—out loud to the empty kitchen—that I wasn’t going to mince enough garlic and onions to feed eight people twice over.
I dumped in the chicken stock and deglazed the pan, a fancy phrase for loosening the burnt bits and hoping for the best. The pan hissed like it was angry, steam clouding my face as the stock lifted the crusted flavor. I stirred harder than necessary, pretending that made me competent.
Close enough. Mason was asleep upstairs, Mattie was gone, I didn’t give a single fuck what Sophia or Lucian thought, and Cameron would be home soon with two and a half kids who would inhale any sauce I served, smoke flavor and all. No complaints–except maybe from Mason.
If she complained, fine. Serves her right for lying about not being pregnant and for abandoning me. I was ready to make her suffer—minorly, of course—until, for the second time that day, unexpected arms wrapped around my waist.
Mason’s forehead pressed to my back, and I froze. It’s a good thing I wasn’t an assassin anymore; I’d lost every shred of situational awareness. Someone could have walked up behind me and ended my life. Luckily, Mason didn’t want to kill me. She wanted to hold on until her hands shook and until I felt like a terrible person for serving her burnt spaghetti.
“I woke up and you were gone,” she whispered, and my heart stuttered.
I turned off the stove and spun to face her. “Princess, you were asleep for maybe half an hour.” I pulled her into my arms, rested my cheek on the crown of her hair. “Why did you get up?”
“I felt around the bed and you weren’t there.” She rubbed her face and sank against my chest. “If I don’t try to move past you killing people and show you I love you, you’re going to leave.”
I jerked back to look at her. “Excuse me?” I scoffed. “Princess, you’re the one who left for two weeks.”
Her bottom lip trembled as she released me to rub her eyes. “Yeah. I should’ve asked questions and learned more before making a rash decision and leaving.”
Her voice surprised me. Those weren’t the halting, blunt words Mason usually managed on her own. “Uh-huh,” I said, keeping the skepticism out of my tone. I didn’t have to ask who had coached that speech; the cadence told me plenty.
“And I should’ve trusted you enough to know you weren’t a danger to me or the kids. If I don’t try to fix things, I’m going to lose someone I care about because I acted too quickly.”
My brow furrowed. Not Mason. Not exactly. But I could deal with Mattie when she got back. Right now, I had to steady Mason, stop the weeping. The kids would be back soon, and Juniper would mercilessly bully her for crying.
“Do you want a bath?” I asked softly.
She shook her head and took a sniffly breath.
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to tell me you love me and you’re not going to leave, and also that you didn’t do something crazy like kill my mom.” The words tumbled out in a rush, half sobbed.
I straightened, suddenly cold. “Well, I do love you. And I’m not leaving. But, what was that last part?” I laughed, trying to sound offhand.
“It was a joke,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes.
