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“Very well then. If you’ll excuse me, I should be re-joining the—”
“Stop!” I cry out, dangerously close to tears. “Just stop for a second.”
He pauses and glances down at me with a detached expression. “Yes?”
I stare into those hazel-rimmed eyes, and I feel something inside me shiver to life. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Don’t act like you don’t know me.”
He pivots back to face me slowly. The icy distance fades away just long enough for me to see the recognition there. “What would you have me do about it?”
It’s a fair question. Fair enough to make me question my own reaction. Shouldn’t I be playing along with this? Isn’t that the best-case scenario considering the circumstances? The very, very fucked-up circumstances?
“Did you know?” I blurt out.
“Did I know who you were that night?” he asks. “Fuck no. I met Celine two weeks after you and I…ran into each other.”
“Did you almost run her over, too?”
A vein twitches in his jaw. “Celine isn’t in the habit of running chaotically around the world like a chicken with its head cut off. So no, it’s safe to say I did not.”
I grit my teeth, but it’s mostly to fight back the tears. The pregnancy hormones have chosen a hell of a time to upregulate my emotions. “What is it then? Are you in the habit of trolling suburban neighborhoods, hunting for your next prospect?”
Great—now, my hands are shaking. Of course he notices.
“You need to get a grip,” he growls, taking a step closer. “Your sister doesn’t need to know what happened between us. I can keep my mouth shut. Can you?”
I shouldn’t say it. I really shouldn’t. Things will be so much easier if I keep the last crucial kernel of information to myself. No good can come of telling him I’m pregnant.
Good. It’s decided. I’m not gonna tell him.
“Great. And what should I tell my sister in seven and a half months when I give birth to a baby who looks just like you?”
Whoops.
17
ILARION
She’s lying.
She has to be.
There’s no way she can be pregnant.
Except that I didn’t wear a condom that night. And I came inside her. And it hadn’t occurred to me until right now that both those things had been a colossally stupid fucking mistake.
But the more I stare at those deep emerald eyes, the harder it gets to cling to the hope that maybe she isn’t telling the truth. She doesn’t look like a woman who’s trying to get back at me.
She looks like a woman who’sterrified of what’s happening.
“Are you sure?” I ask, keeping the storm in my head off my face.
She takes a step back as though my composure is proof that I’m some sort of psychopath. Hell, she might be right.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she bites out. “I went to a doctor this morning and she confirmed it.”
“How far along are you?”
Her eyes narrow into angry slits. “You know exactly how far along I am.”
