Page 90 of Thin Lives

Still.

Silent.

Close.

She felt the silky, baby soft skin of his back. The warmth of his body pressed against the cradle of her palms. She listened to his quiet breaths and the suckling sound of his thumb popped into his mouth as it usually was.

The bathroom door was still closed.

No one could see her moment.

Emma always felt like Affonso was watching her too much whenever she had her son in her arms. Like he was waiting for a reason to say she was coddling Cross too much, or maybe even that she wasn’t taking care of him well enough.

He’d already made those sorts of comments. Or rather, alluded to them.

It terrified her.

She found herself wondering all the time about what might happen to her when she was no longer useful to Affonso and Cross. Or if he didn’t think she was useful.

The man was too distrustful of outsiders to hire a nanny of sorts.

Emma was left to the job of caring for most—if not all—of Cross’s needs because Affonso was incapable of doing anything other than showing the baby off for praise and congratulations.

But what about when Cross could walk?

When he didn’t wake up four times in a night?

When he was potty-trained?

When he didn’t need his mother to survive?

Emma’s throat closed around the sob she held back. Burying her face against the towel covering her baby, she held Cross a little tighter where no one could see her fear and worries.

“Mamma loves you, sweet boy,” she whispered to him.

Cross kept sucking on his thumb, blissfully unaware of his mother’s panic.

In a way, she was happy he didn’t know.

“And your father—” Emma’s words cut off, but only briefly before she finished quieter with, “Your father will adore you—I know he will.”

She had made the decision to tell Calisto the truth—all of it, every single detail, no matter how hurtful, unbelievable, and dirty it may be to him. He needed to know, and she needed him to know, too.

Emma had thought for so long that to protect her son, his father, and herself, she needed to do what Affonso demanded of her.

But she didn’t think that was true, now.

She was pretty sure the only way to win against her husband was to play his own damn games.

Or … that was her plan.

If Calisto ever came back, that was.

Another two weeks passed Emma by in a worry-filled, sleepless blur.

She never complained.

Not about her son.