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It doesn’t matter to me what she does, so long as she does what I want her to. And I want her to spend time with me, fall in love with me, and live happily ever after with me. That doesn’t mean I have to control her every action. “This is going to be your home, Calliope. You are free to roam around as you please.” With only one unspoken rule:don’t run away.
I plate her omelet and sprinkle some freshly grated cheese on top. I’ll have to thank Grace for all the work that she does. “I hope you’re hungry this morning,” I announce with a cheerful smile as I drop the plate in front of her. “It’s a chorizo omelet. Let me grab the salsa!”
I didn’t make the chipotle adobo salsa from scratch. I know my way around a kitchen, but I was relying on Grace having some in the fridge. It’s my favorite salsa for breakfast food, tacos, and chips. I pull out the container and start scooping some into a bowl when I catch Calliope out of the corner of my eye.
Her nose is crinkled in disgust as she brings her fork to the omelet and starts to dissect it. Steam wafts from the meat, cheese, and eggs so I know it’s not underdone. Just as I’m about to ask her what’s wrong, she gets up from the table and bolts.
The fork clatters to the ground. “What the hell!” I glare at Calliope’s fast-moving figure. She only makes it to the kitchen sink before she starts vomiting.
My first thought is that Grace is going to be pissed that she has to clean this up. I set down the container of salsa and walk over to Calliope and gather her hair in my hands. With one hand acting as a ponytail, the other rubs her back gently. I can clean this up. Grace does too much for this household to be responsible for cleaning up Calliope’s messes.
Calliope smacks my hand away after a few seconds. “You’re an asshole,” she groans as she spins in place and sinks to the floor. Her face has turned as white as a sheet and she buries it in her hands.
“Me?” I glare down at her. “What did I do?”
She lifts her head long enough to give me a pointed look as if asking if I’m serious. When I don’t respond, she scoffs and slams her head back down between her legs. “This is all your fault,” comes her muffled accusation.
I’m about to tell her that she better start to explain before I get angry when it dawns on me. “Calliope,” I grab onto the kitchen sink to steady myself, “are you pregnant?” I try to do the math but it doesn’t make sense to me. I should have tracked Calliope’s cycle. She hasn’t had a period in the four weeks that she’s been here, but she likely had it before I kidnapped her.
She groans and whimpers, an inadequate response to my question. “When was your last period?” I should have asked that ages ago. The day I started fucking her, for example. But I didn’t expect to deflower her so quickly.
“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “A week before I was brought here? A week and a half?” Calliope lets out a whimper that’s half tears. “You’re psychotic, you know that?”
Now the math is starting to add up. Pregnancy dating starts on the first day of your last menstrual cycle. If I conservatively say that it was a week before I kidnapped her, then that would make her five weeks along. Give or take a few days. “You need to take a pregnancy test.”
Calliope glares up at me. “Vomiting isn’t enough of an indicator?”
It’s a start, but it isn’t a positive pee stick. I leave the room and take the stairs two and a time. When I first started fucking Calliope into submission, I ordered pregnancy tests online in bulk. A pack of ten showed up at the door a week later and I kept them stashed in a hallway closet where I was sure no one would come across them.
I grab the oversized box and rip it open, pulling out the first plastic-wrapped test that I can get my hands on. The instructions are probably the same as all the rest: pee on the stick, wait until a result pops up. So I don’t waste any time reading literature on how to make sure you get the best possible sample.
I’m ripping the damn plastic off the pregnancy test before I even make it all the way back to Calliope. It’s a standard little stick with a cap on the end and I shove it at her as I walk up. “Take this. Now.”
She stares at the pregnancy test and then reluctantly takes in from my hand. When I offer to help her to her feet, she doesn’t accept. “You’re a fucking sicko.”
God, I want to slam my cock between her lips and make her taste punishment on her tongue. But I point toward the hallway where the bathroom is and tell her to move it instead. “We’ll discuss your bad behavior later.” I pretend not to see her rolling her eyes at me.
Calliope mumbles incoherently under her breath but I catch a word here and there. The word is alwaysjackass.
Frankly, I don’t care what she calls me, just as long as she’s pregnant. Once I get a baby on her, the plan can move forward. I’ve already been planning the wedding in my limited spare time, but it’ll be nice to get Calliope a ring, get down on one knee, and promise that the rest of her life will be better with me by her side.
When we reach the hall bathroom, Calliope walks in and goes to shut the door behind her, but I stop it with a flat palm. “You’re kidding me,” she looks up at me in disgust. “You’re going to watch me pee?”
It isn’t my kink, but I want to see what that pregnancy test says. “I’ll stare at the wall,” I decide after a moment. “But I want you to leave the door open.” I control her life. She does what I say.
Calliope’s mutterings become even more angered as she walks inside and waits for me to turn around. I take a step to the side and lean up against the wall with my arms crossed impatiently over my chest. I hear the slam of plastic on the counter and it’s followed a few seconds later by the sound of her peeing. This is definitely not my kink.
A few moments later, as I’m trying to decide which room in the house will be the new nursery, I hear the toilet flush. “I’m decent,” Calliope growls just a second before the sink comes on.
I come around the door frame and let myself in. The pregnancy test is sitting on the counter with the purple cap placed back on the end she peed on.
“I’ve never taken one of those before,” she says with an accusatory glare. “I just had to assume that was the side I peed on since you didn’t give me any instructions.”
Shewasa virgin when I kidnapped her off the streets. There’s no reason to shell out $7 a test when you know for sure you aren’t pregnant. “I’m sorry,” I apologize with a purse of my lips. “I guess I didn’t know that.”
Calliope dries her hands on the towel hanging in front of the shower. There’s silence in the room for a minute before she says, “There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, Raniero. Your file can tell you my sealed criminal history and my medical records, but it won’t tell you who I am.”
Maybe so, but we have the rest of our lives to get to know one another. I hold up the pregnancy test with two clear pink lines in the test window. “You can tell me who you are over dinner for the next forty years.”
