“It’s okay, Mara. Breathe through it.” As the tightness eases, I’m increasingly aware of the male hand brushing wayward strands from my forehead. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here now.”
I gather my strength to berate him, but before I can open my mouth, Mrs. Smith opens hers. “Are you claiming her and this child, Warren?”
Good Christ. I throw out anoat the same time as hisyes.
“You don’t own me, and you can’t claim me,” I bite out as I awkwardly raise up. “You never will. No man will.” Never again.
His eyes soften, but he doesn’t back away as his heavyhand makes another bold pass over my forehead. “I don’t want to own you, Mara. No man should ever own another person.”
We’re in agreement then. My elbow slips over the silky sheets, but I just go with it, collapsing onto the pillow and away from the weight of his touch. Why does he keep trying to touch me? It’s like he doesn’t even notice how dirty I am. I can’t remember the last time I was able to bathe properly with hot water, let alone wash my hair. Christ, what I’d give for a bath.
But Warren isn’t finished yet. No, that’s all too evident by the stubborn set of his firm jaw and the long fingers that weave themselves into my stiff ones. “Claiming you and this baby is altogether different than owning you. I told you I’d take care of you whether you liked it or not. A husband’s what you need, Mara, and that’s what you’re gonna get.”
“A husband?” I spit out the words as the curse they are, all pain forgotten for the moment as I stare daggers into him. His hand tightens around mine, but that does nothing to quell my indignation. “No man?—”
“Mara,” Mrs. Smith interrupts softly but firmly, “it’s about more than a husband. What about a man being a father to your child so neither of you are shunned? How will you live and support yourself? This could be good for you, dear. Warren Shay’s a good boy.”
“A good boy.” The words come out on a jeer as I jerk my hand back. Every man under the age of forty is likely a boy to her. “He’s a grown man, and I’ve been raped enough by his kind for a lifetime.”
Storms gather in his light brown eyes as he glances over my straining belly in a touch I can almost feel. “Raped?” he rasps over Mrs. Smith’s sharp breath.
“More times than I can count. But no more.” This I vow to myself. Absolutely no more.
“Mara, I...” Silence reigns for five long seconds. His expression shutters, hiding his thoughts before he abruptly leaves the room without a backward glance. And then he’s gone, taking his unspoken words with him.
Why didn’t I think of that sooner? No man wants to raise a bastard child, let alone one conceived that way. I shove away the bitterness at how easy it was to repulse him, wondering why I even care.
Because I don’t.
Or shouldn’t.
“Oh, you poor sweet child.” Mrs. Smith’s soft touch to my forehead brings the burning sting of tears to my nose. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, but there’s no better man to care for you than one from the Shay family.”
I swallow down my unexplainable hurt and cradle the baby in my belly. “It’s too late. He’s gone now.” Gone, and leaving a strange sort of emptiness in the room that I shouldn’t notice.
The door opens suddenly with a bang, bringing a damned dash of unwanted hope that I don’t allow myself to feel for more than a second. But it’s not Warren. It’s Jolene and a blonde-haired woman carrying towels and water.
“Just place it there,” Mrs. Smith directs before turning to the blonde. “Beatrice, there’s a young gentleman downstairs. Please see that he’s returned to his parents if Warren didn’t tend to him already.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a small dip of her knees, Beatrice leaves.
Mrs. Smith turns to me, compassion mingling with determination. “All right, Mara. I’m going to lift your dress now, dear, and see how close you are.”
My legs fall open of their own accord as she lifts the dirty hem. I reluctantly admire her fortitude given the way she doesn’t react at the state of my privates. I’d cleaned myself best I could after Crowley was done with me, but only time brings the redness and swelling down and stops the bleeding.
It just doesn’t erase the memories.
I study the ceiling, tracing my gaze over the wooden squares that dissect the floral motifs while I smother my feelings and ignore the cold hands between my legs. I’m used to it even if I don’t like it. If not the groping hands of men wanting sex, it’s the indifferent touch of doctors ensuring I didn’t have any diseases. After all, owners don’t make money if the product ruins the clients.
“All right, Mara.” Mrs. Smith forces a cheerful smile to her thin lips. “Let’s freshen you up and get you into a proper nightgown, shall we? If we women must undergo the pain of childbirth, we should at least be able to have a little dignity throughout it, don’t you agree? Jolene, bring the soap, please.”
Unable to bring myself to return her gesture, I stare blindly at the wooden grains running over the bedroom door that Warren left through. I should be happy he’s gone. Why is it that I feel a gut-wrenching ache in my chest instead?
“Lift up, dear.” She eases my dress over my head and presses a warm, wet cloth to my face. It’ll take more than her gentle wipes to clean away the heavy dirt and grime, but I allow myself to enjoy her simple and unassuming touch.
“The soap smells nice,” I murmur to no one in particular. Maybe to myself. Maybe to my baby.
“You like it, do you?” The scent grows stronger as thecloth moves under my nose. “I crush the roses from my own garden.”
