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But no one knew Karson. Not truly.
Except me.
Therefore, I knew that my muscled, deadly, dangerous man did not thrive on conflict. It was just a biproduct of his chosen career path. Something he didn’t shy away from, but not something that got him out of bed in the morning.
I didn’t exactly thrive on conflict either, though fighting with him did excite me. Especially because it almost always ended in magnificent sex. And I almost always got my way.
Karson enjoyed make up sex wholeheartedly, but the sex we had on a regular basis was so out of this world that we didn’t need to invent fights just to have exciting sex like some couples did.
Karson did not like fighting with me either. Hence me almost always getting my way. He liked me happy. Liked me satisfied. And he reveled in peace. I was his sanctuary. The life we’d created together was his escape from the harsh and ugly realities of what he did for Jay.
So he let most things go.
But not this.
“I cannot believe we’re still talking about this,” I huffed angrily, struggling to push apart my clothes hanging in the closet.
I adored almost everything about Karson’s cottage. I’d all but moved in here.
The only problem was the closet.
It was a walk in. Quite impressive considering the modest size of the house itself. But inexplicably ridiculous when one had as many clothes, shoes and purses as I did.
I was testing the limits of the closet’s capacity in that moment, with hangers so crammed in I could barely move clothes in and out.
Of course, I could’ve streamlined, Marie Kondo’d everything like Karson had in the tiny little sliver he had dedicated to identical black suits, but every single item of clothing I owned brought me fucking joy, and unlike my boyfriend, I was not content to wear the exact same thing daily forever.
Though he could wear the absolute fuck out of a black suit.
“Why is this such a big deal to you?” I demanded, frowning at a flowy, printed dress that would skim over my belly and fall just above my ankles.
“Because I want you to be my wife,” Karson said simply.
I glared at him over my shoulder. His posture was taut, tense, determined. He was ready for a fight. He was ready for a battle. For war.
With me.
Over this.
And he was used to winning all his wars, so he was expecting to win this one. I was sure he was pissed off that it had taken him this long, that I’d held out this long. But he knew me, so he understood I wasn’t someone to give up easily.
But he expected me to do that. Give up. Give in.
It didn’t make sense, me fighting him on something like marriage when I was pregnant with his child. When I had committed to a life with him. When I planned on forever with him. When his name was inked into my skin.
What was marriage compared to that?
I got a party. I got to be the center of attention, I got to wear a custom-made white dress, I got to say my vows to the man I most loved in this world. All of those things were indescribably wonderful.
But something stopped me. Stalled me. Visions of my parent’s marriage. A union originally rooted in love, at one point. One that became about parties, charities, an image. Our marriage would be nothing like that, I knew that for sure. Yet I still paused.
I still fought.
I still battled.
And come hell or high water, I would win this war.
But I wasn’t ready to hurt him. To face him head on. Not yet.
