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But not everything is completely at ease. With Wren nestled against my chest, barely breathing, I feel a sudden, tiny thump.
“Was that a kick?”
Wren peels her head off my shoulder with some effort, a sleepy smile on her face. “I’m so used to it now that I barely notice. Yeah, that’s our little guy.”
Our little guy. I like the way that sounds. “He’s strong.”
“He is,” she says fondly. “Ah, there he is again.”
I can feel him, pushing insistently at his mama’s belly, probably wondering what the hell is going on that’s got his mother’s heartbeat racing. I palm her belly and feel him respond right away.
“That’s our son,” I whisper. “That’s our little boy.”
We stay in the water until our skin turns pruney. Then I help Wren out of the tub. I make her stand still while I towel her off, dabbing every inch of her skin until she’s dry and glistening.
I’m so lost in admiring the beautiful new curves of her body that I barely notice the wall that’s starting to come up around her. But by the time I straighten up and meet her eyes, I can sense that something has shifted.
She doesn’t return my gaze; she looks away pointedly and slips out of the bathroom. I follow behind her quietly, waiting for her to break the silence.
“I’m gonna skip dinner tonight,” she says abruptly. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat, Wren. The baby?—”
“Then send in a tray,” she says curtly. “I don’t want to go out.”
“You don’t have to. We can eat in the kitchen?—”
She whips around towards me, her eyes bright with passion. “This is not normal, Dmitri,” she cries. “What just happened in there—” She gestures towards the bathroom. “—that shouldn’t have happened at all. I can’t believe… I can’t believe I allowed it.”
“Wren, listen?—”
“I want to be alone, Dmitri. Please.” Her voice is firm, borderline pleading. Any kind of conversation will only serve to dredge up the past and, since I don’t have the energy for that, I nod and leave her to wrestle with her demons alone.
It was good sex. It was a pure moment.
But even that can’t fix everything.
19
WREN
The worst part about having hot bathtub sex with your baby daddy and former boss who also happens to be your sister’s murderer?
You can’t exactly talk that shit out with your friends.
Or in my case, friend—singular. I’ve purposefully avoided talking about Dmitri during my last three phone calls with Syrah. She always tries to go there, but I bat away every question smoothly.
(At least, I think I’m being smooth. I have no idea if it translates.)
The point is, Syrah’s let me get away with it. I can tell she’s worried about me, but she doesn’t want to stress me out, either. I desperately want to talk to her, but what would I even say? That in a moment of weakness, I succumbed to the walking aphrodisiac that is Dmitri Egorov? That I let him soap me up and give me one of the best orgasms of my life? That I spent the next four days trying to avoid him unsuccessfully?
How would that conversation go exactly?
ME: Yeah, I was just so damn horny. Pregnancy hormones, iykyk.
SYRAH: Totally understandable. Get it, girl.
ME: No! Absolutely not! I shouldn’t have let my guard down!
