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His kiss felt gentle, careful, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing. “Grace… My Grace,” he whispered against my lips. “My beautiful Grace. You’re my everything.”
Chapter 20
Grace
Once again, I was a free woman, no longer bound to a contract that put me at the mercy of another’s whim.
Anton changed me. It wasn’t just in the way I dressed, but the way I perceived myself. People could never stare enough at me. However, before, I would settle for any attention, even the demeaning, disrespectful kind. Not anymore. Today, I wanted respect. I deserved respect.
Since Anton released me from our contract two weeks ago, things changed in subtle, yet wonderful ways. Anton made even more time for me, involving me in his business. It made me feel valued. He openly displayed his affection, whether in public or private. Although he hadn’t said he loved me, I knew Anton felt deeply for me. Words weren’t all that important to me – actions were. That he’d defy Braxian protocols for me said it all.
Anton offered to deposit a spending allowance in my account to do with as I pleased until I started making my own money. I declined. I wanted him to know we were together because my feelings for him were genuine. Also, there was never any real reasons for me to spend. Anytime we went out, the venue would put it on Anton’s tab. He opened an unlimited line of credit for me in every clothing, jewelry, shoes, and accessory store on Venus Hive. Ok, those I didn’t decline. However, I didn’t abuse his generosity.
Really? How about all those shoes?
Alright, I did tend to go overboard on shoes, but as an artist, I’d get plenty of opportunities to wear them all at least once. And we cut short our rehearsal because of that shoe obsession. We now rehearsed in full costumes. My heels were so high, I might as well be a ballerina walking on pointe. I was the queen of ‘fuck-me’ shoes. However, it was one thing to strut around in them, quite another to perform a perfectly timed choreography. Result? Twisted ankle.
A healing cream would fix it in no time, but Romero was being extra cautious. I couldn’t blame him. Anton would lose it if Romero allowed anything bad to happen to me during rehearsal. So here I sat in Dr. Farland’s office, getting the usual third degree about my health, habits, addictions or lack thereof. Why they kept asking those stupid questions was a mystery since the routine blood analysis provided all the answers.
Farland pricked my finger with a stylus before sticking it in the analyzer, then reclined in his metal chair while he waited for the results. Seeing how bony Farland was, that chair had to be painful to sit in. But then everything about that man and his office felt hard, cold, and clinical. The room’s whiteness blinded me. The sparse furniture consisted of a metal desk, an examination table, and a metal shelf with various scanners and devices. Aside from a large vidscreen, the walls were completely barren.
While he waited for the results, he continued to question me. What the fuck did my temperature, lack of dizzy spells or absence of nausea have to do with a twisted ankle?
“Why are you asking me this, Doctor?” I asked, confused. “Is something wrong with the vaccines you gave me? I mean, I’m just here to check on my ankle before my show.”
He cast a glance at the analyzer. “Your blood test indicates that you’re pregnant.”
I gripped the armrests of my chair, feeling as if my world tilted. Although he was a brilliant physician, Dr. Farland’s reputation of being a jerk with terrible bedside manners finally proved accurate. This was not how you told someone they were pregnant.
I shook my head. “That’s impossible. I have a three-year contraceptive implant with a little over one year left. There’s no way I can be pregnant.”
Farland rolled his eyes. “What is it with human women? Did you all skip your sex education classes? Do your teachers not warn you that human contraceptivesmay not workwith an alien partner? Do they not tell you to consult a physician and see if your contraceptive needs adjusting?”
I gaped at him. I hadn’t attended any sex education classes. My ‘education’ had been hands on by Mr. Carston, the orphanage’s caretaker, who felt I was old enough at twelve to learn how to please a man. Marcus had taught him better – permanently.
“But Anton is half-human…”
Farland looked at me like I was stupid.
Apparently, half alien is all it takes. But how?
“My implant prevents me from ovulating. I haven’t had periods in years. How can I possibly get pregnant?”
“A Braxian’s seminal plasma – the fluid his seed swims in,” Farland said, miming semen swimming, “is made not only to protect the sperm from getting destroyed or damaged by a woman’s natural spermicide, but it also helps regulate the progesterone level of the woman to increase the chances of implantation. The more you’re exposed to his semen, including orally,” he added with a meaningful look, “the more it overrides the effects of your contraceptive. So unless you were using condoms, it was only a matter of time.”
Right. With Anton and me fucking like rabbits, it’s almost a miracle it didn’t happen sooner. And that’s not even talking about how many times I swallowed.
Family.
The thought spread a warm feeling in my stomach. I didn’t mind getting pregnant. In truth, I wanted a family – a big one. In my mind’s eye, I pictured tiny hands reaching for Anton’s face, pulling his lips with that crazy strength babies seem to have.
They would be half-breeds.
Cold coils of fear shattered the pleasant image. Braxians didn’t allow half-breeds to have children. Would Anton follow that rule? Did he even want children? Would his clan come after our baby? After me?
When Anton released me from our contract two weeks ago, he promised not to follow Braxian protocols. Did that include our children? Was I even ready to have children with him? What if he became violent again? Then it wouldn’t be just me being hurt, but my child. My parents hadn’t wanted me, but my children would be loved.
“How far along am I?”
