“Don’t be like this, Gidge,” he warns me, but I’ve already spilled ketchup on his blanket, so … fuck it. “We’ll get a DNA test, but it’s likely Grainger’s baby.”
My turn to frown back at him. I have a sense that these are two completely different issues. I feel like I might pass out.
Really lived up to those high expectations, eh Gidge? Eighteen, married, high school dropout, pregnant, negotiating deals with the mafia. Sounds about right.
“And what if it is? What if it’s Sin’s?” I curl my hand into a fist, running my thumb over the surface of the ruby. “What if it’s yours?”
Crown just keeps staring at me. And then he’s moving even more quickly than I thought possible. He hops the bed like it’s nothing. His hands grab my wrists and slam them into the door behind my head. He holds me there with his right hand and uses his left to steal the ring back.
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” he asks softly, still keeping me pinned there. He slips the ring in his pocket and then rests his big hand on the curve of my waist. I’m panting as I look up at him, at the classic good looks that hide the monster underneath.
I should’ve known he was the one who’d give me the most trouble.
“You can’t give this house or this ring to another woman,” I declare, and Crown laughs. It’s a low, dark sound.
“Can’t I?” he asks me, but in a manner that’s … mocking? Like when I asked him about Amber’s ring. What did he say?
“How could you think that? I … fuck, I put everything on the line for you.”
“You’re married to another man,” he growls out, his gaze so intense that I squirm beneath it, tugging on my wrists and knowing that I’m not going anywhere. If I wanted to, I could use one of the moves that Beast taught me to get out of this.
I don’t bother.
“Even if you were going to get with another woman, it’d be fucked to give them this house or that ring.” I nod my chin in his direction. “No woman wants a secondhand house or worse—a secondhand engagement ring. You’re not as much of a hero as you pretend to be; you don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it,” Crown says, leaning down and brushing his hot mouth over mine, just enough to taste. “But who the fuck do you think you are, giving me dating advice? I won’t be bossed around by an eighteen-year-old girl inside my own house.”
“It’s my house,” I repeat yet again, and then Crown’s mouth is taking mine with savage ferocity, making my toes curl against the wood floors as his tongue sweeps over mine in the most demanding and infuriating way possible. His hand on my waist flexes, wrinkling up the sweatshirt and making the bruises beneath ache in an entirely different way than they did before.
My hips thrust forward of their own accord, grinding against the front of Crown’s jeans.
“I was moping, and I almost missed it,” he growls again, and then he’s kissing me so hard that I can’t breathe, and his hand is reaching for the button on my jeans. I just barely remember that Beast asked me not to have sex with anyone else.
Fair enough, considering we only got the chance to consummate our marriage with a quick, wild rut. I push Crown’s hand away, and he turns his head sharply, closing his eyes and sucking in a sharp breath.
“Beast and I haven’t really had a wedding night …” I hazard, knowing that I have to say it whether it pisses Crown off or not. He releases me suddenly and stands up, turning back to watch me as I rub at my wrists. They don’t hurt; they burn.
I want Crown to hold me down on his bed and fuck me so hard that the old wood frame breaks into pieces. I want to dent the wall with him. I want to scream and tear his back to ribbons.
Instead, I lean my body against the door as he prowls around to the opposite side of the bed, inserting the ring into the box, and then carefully replacing it inside his nightstand drawer next to a spare, pre-loaded pistol.
He closes the drawer and then looks over at me.
I’m sure I still look hideous with all the swelling in my face, but that’s not how Crown looks at me. He looks at me in such a way that I imagine he’s calculating the risks of breaking Beast’s barriers and taking me anyway. I really hope he doesn’t do that; we need balance here.
“If the baby isn’t mine,” he starts, and my heart stutters strangely in my chest. Not only do I not want a baby period, but I also don’t like the way he’s talking, as if this is it, as if our chances of being together rest on some stupid fucking DNA test. “Then I want a baby of my own next. That’s my ask.”
