“Hm. Where’s my breakfast?” Callie asked, rubbing her stomach.
“Coming right up,” I said, smacking her ass as I walked past. “You earned it after this morning.”
She didn’t say a word—because the twins were right there. But her head snapped around so fast I half-expected a fork to fly at me.
I kept walking.
Learned that one from my nieces. Kids hear everything when they’re not supposed to. So now Callie had no choice but to stew in silence, shooting me subtle death glares while pouring more juice.
I plated her food like the loving husband I was, even sprinkling a few extra pumpkin seeds on top—fertility gold, apparently. Not that she knew. For the last month, I’d been quietly turning her meals into a breeding buffet. A kale smoothie here, a walnut garnish there. More salmon than beef. She thought I was just getting into “health.”
No, baby.
I was getting into your womb—again.
She didn’t know it yet, but we were already laying the groundwork for round two.
Her eyes met mine. They promised vengeance.
My grin widened.
She couldn’t touch me now, not in front of the girls. But later? When nap time hit and the house went quiet? Oh, she’d come for me with all the vengeance of a brat denied her right to sass.
And I’d be waiting.
It was the best kind of war with my brat.
The End.
