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“Shut up.” He sinks his teeth into my neck, making me stiffen. Then his tongue caresses the hurt. “You make me so fucking hard.”
The proof presses against my backside, swelling, lengthening. Typical Monty tactics right here. With his hand snaking between my legs and his breath hot on my throat, he intends to fuck me into compliance, until my brain liquefies, and my heart stops, and I forget all about the pregnancy he wants to terminate.
“Open your fucking legs,” he growls.
“No.” More growl. Or at least I try to sound mean as I buck uselessly beneath him. “Stop!”
“Keep fighting me, and I’ll fuck your ass without lube.”
Not a hollow threat. It’s his favorite punishment.
Any other day, I might’ve surrendered to his filthy games, eager for the pleasure he wrings from the pain. But not today. Not with my heart in shambles and our argument hanging in the balance.
I’m at a disadvantage wearing only a camisole and undies as he wrestles the latter down my legs. With a few hard kicks and grunts, I twist to my back and meet him stare for stare.
“No.” My tone, sharp and forceful, leaves no room for misunderstanding. “Look at me, Monty. I’m not playing. This is me saying, get the fuck off.”
He goes still. “You fucking serious?”
“Deadly.”
He knows better than to push me on this. With an angry shove off the bed to match the angry bruise to his ego, he adjusts his pants and strides toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m late.” He grabs his wallet and phone from the dresser on the way out.
He wasn’t late three seconds ago when his dick was jabbing my ass.
“So help me…” Lurching to my feet, I yank up my underwear. “If you walk out that door…”
“You’ll what?” He pauses on the threshold, his voice chillingly quiet. “What will you do, Frankie?”
I’ll leave. I’ll pack up my shit and be gone before he returns. I’ll start over. Without him.
Rather than voicing that truth, I harden my glare. If he’s going to do the right thing, it won’t be because I issued an ultimatum.
But since he’s a man, he stands there all arrogant and precious in his fitted suit and interprets my silence as capitulation.
“That’s what I thought.” He steps into the hall. “I have a dinner meeting after work.”
“Monty—”
“I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.” He vanishes around the corner.
Panic rushes in, constricting my throat.
He’s leaving. He’s actually fucking going, as if he didn’t just tell his wife to abort his baby.
It feels like the ultimate betrayal.
Am I overreacting? Maybe with a full day separating us, he’ll come home with an open mind and be willing to discuss the idea of fatherhood. Maybe we can have a productive conversation after we’ve both had time to think.
But I can’t. I can’t just sit here and wait around for his almighty decision. I’m too livid, too distraught to give him another chance.
Doesn’t stop me from straining to hear his footsteps, willing him to turn back.
Please, Monty. Please, don’t go.
His retreating tread fades beyond my hearing. Then the front door shuts, ending us like a knife in the heart.
2
Frankie
—
That’s it then. It’s over. I have to leave.
The horror of that reality hits so heavily, so completely, my lungs collapse with a keening howl. My knees buckle, and I sink to the floor, swallowed by the anguish cracking open inside me.
Goddammit, I love Monty with everything I—
No. That can’t factor in. I can’t let it. I have no choice but to pack and leave the island before he returns. Because one thing is certain. He’ll never let me go.
My throat thickens. It won’t be easy—starting over, pregnant and heartbroken, running from a man who has more money and resources than God. My outlook is fucking grim.
And just like that, I fall apart beneath the gravity of it. Unable to breathe, I curl up on the floor, shaking down to the wreckage of my soul. Tears flow without restriction as I release all that bellows inside—the helplessness, the fear, the inconsolable agony of my heart crashing into rubble.
I don’t recognize the sounds coming from my throat. I can’t hear past the violent wails. I can’t feel anything beyond inconsolable pain.
Shit. Fuck. What the hell am I going to do?
I’m going to pull my shit together, that’s what. I’ll call the hospital and quit my job. As a trauma nurse, I can work anywhere.
Anywhere Monty can’t find me.
I’ll leave Sitka. Hell, I’ll leave Alaska if I must. I always wanted to move away from my hometown, and I have some money saved. I can do this. The baby and I will be fine. We’ll survive.
If only I could stop crying.
Shutting my burning eyes, I mentally catalog the essentials I need to pack. I’ll need some basic clothes, my hospital scrubs, hygiene products from the bathroom, identification and documents to travel…
