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“I don’t want to have any.”
He said nothing, not for a long time, and the pain that stretched between them was both shared and all their own. She didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know how to find a way to what she wanted. If she couldn’t find it, how could she help him?
It just hurt. Loving him like she did. Seeing him hurt. Seeing him close himself off.
“Go back to sleep,” he said.
“You won’t come to bed.”
“Not just yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HE’DNEVERSPENTthe night with anyone before. Hazard of his lifestyle. He had never had a romantic relationship, and he always split once the sex had ended.
He hadn’t realized it would be a thing.
But it was. Whenever he thought of sleeping beside Charity he...couldn’t.
He controlled himself, all during the day. He kept his walls up. But thinking about holding her while she slept, sleeping next to her...
He felt like it was a step too far down a road he wouldn’t be able to come back from. Marrying her might have been the first step. But he was with her now.
He could feel it changing him.
He’d cared for her for years. And it had been good. Easy. Why wasn’t it like that now?
She’d gone to bed, but he could tell that she was unhappy. And of all the things he hated the most about his decisions over the past couple of months, the fact that he made Charity Wyatt unhappy was the biggest one.
This was why you were never supposed to touch her, dumbass.
Because he needed this. A carefully controlled, friendship kind of marriage. And he could see her beginning to be hungry for something else.
It was something that he simply couldn’t risk.
It was his birthday anyway.
The hours blurred together in an alcohol haze, and he didn’t realize it was past two until Charity came out.
“Lachlan?”
He looked up and saw her standing in the doorway. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and she looked so sad.
Why the hell was she sad?
The angry thought came up from nowhere and shocked him, but that didn’t banish it.
It was his damn birthday and he had every right to be sad about birthdays.
Angry.
“You know what birthday you’ve never asked me about?” he asked.
“What?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“My ninth birthday.” He poured himself more whiskey. “You’re so obsessed with the damn birthdays, you should know about that one.”
“What happened on your ninth birthday?” she asked.
