Chapter 20

Brynley

“I look like a pregnant yellow seahorse.” Dramatically pausing in the middle of my penthouse living room for Mom, Evie, and Jenni is accompanied by a sneer. “Which is the male by the way.” Pointing to the area in front of me where the two-tone yellow evening dress is poorly framing my stomach precedes another jeer. “In nature, this pouch would be on the dude, and he would be the one having to deal with pregnancy problems like trying to make it from breakfast to lunch without puking or through an episode of Deep Space Nine without bawling away his mascara.” Both hands fall defiantly onto my hips. “I don’t wanna be a seahorse!”

“Gah, you say the most top-cheddar shit,” Jenni dreamily swoons under her breath. “You’re such a fuckin’ beauty.”

“Let’s not hit on the boss’s pregnant fiancée,” Evie instantly reprimands. “I like you on payroll. Plus, finding your replacement is simply something I do not have time for in this phase of our PR strategy.” Her fingers deliver an exasperated ruffle to her long red locks prior to sighing at me, “And can you give me something to work with here? You were the one who refused to meet with Taylor for styling this week.”

No shit.

First and foremost, who the fuck wants to meet with a recently retired Swedish supermodel especially when you’re pregnant and agonizing over how much longer you’re going to be able to wear your favorite tank tops?

Second – and almost equally as important – why would I wanna be styled by Runway Barbie when I’m actively trying to avoid the limelight?

I don’t know the status of my relationship, let alone if I’ll ever walk a red carpet or gala stage with him again.

I didn’t wanna meet to play dress up when I’m over here basically drowning in unknown waters.

What if we’re over?

Really over?

Wouldn’t engaging in a real-world game of Pretty Pretty Princess be a waste of everyone’s time?

His money I could happily waste.

We’d just call it asshole tax and that would be that.

However, my time?

Not so much.

Between proving to the wanna be queen of Atlantica I still have valuable purpose at The Institute in spite of being pregnant and skimming through what to expect while pregnant books during less beloved episodes of my favorite franchise, I don’t have minutes to waste on unnecessary shit such as being properly clothed by the long lost Skarsg?rd sister.

That was a priority when being there for Wes was a priority.

When showing up as the future Mrs. Wilcox was a priority.

When I was learning to be queen of an empire, I’m highly underqualified to even be a townsperson in.

My world?

It’s the one under the waves.

The one I’ll never have to wear something this ridiculous in order to rule.

Wet and dry suits are definitely my favorite black-tie attire.

“You wanna try the green one on again?” Evie politely suggests. “Perhaps if we keep your hair down it’ll redirect focus up to your chest – where we both know you like it – and away from your stomach area – where we both know you don’t.”

“ No .” Folding my arms firmly under the uneven cut of the gown is attached to a sardonic smirk. “I’d rather not wear The Spearmint Gum gown to the gala for the Global Society of Pathological Liars.”

“ Pathological Outliers ,” Mom swiftly corrects.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, what you described would be a charity event to support con artists…” the woman who gave birth to me does her best not to grin. “This is a charity event to support an organization that’s committed to better public health, medicine, and awareness on a global scale.”

“ God, that sounds so boring ,” is thoughtlessly mumbled. “And I can’t even fucking drink to make it interesting.”

“Or…really…eat,” Jenni adds on an uncomfortable cringe. “They’re doing a whole app night-”

“ Hors d'oeuvres ,” her boss revises to imply more class.

“-to go with the open bar thing and it’s all shit you’re not supposed to eat according to the pregnancy blogs I’ve been reading for you.”

“For me?”

“Like for me to help you, help you through this whole pregnancy team change.” For some reason, her sports metaphor captures my interest rather than repels it. “You’re the head coach – obvs – and Wes is the assistant couch – double obvs – and your mom is like the equipment manager – really obvs – and like Evie is clearly somewhere in operations-”

“Don’t say obvs again,” the latter instantly grouses.

“Which kind of leaves me to be like the rando that has to be ready for whatever assist is ness, so that’s what I’m doin’.” Her baby pink blouse covered shoulders innocently bounce. “Reading things and making sure I have answers when answers are needed about things that maybe you might have questions over like what types of foods you can’t eat at these events such as raw oysters or mango tuna tartare-”

“I don’t like either of those not pregnant.”

“Goat cheese and salami stuffed dates-”

“I like two of those things.”

“And bananas foster bites.”

“But those are so fucking good!”

“Pregnant women shouldn’t have too many bananas because it can cause high pulse rate, dizziness, or vomiting.”

“ I’m already vomiting all the time! ”

Jenni shrinks back into herself prompting Mom to deliver a loving pat to her lap as if reassuring the poor girl, it’s not her I’m pissed at.

And it’s not.

She’s actually… helpful.

Much more fucking helpful than the person I am actually pissed at which is the person who knocked me up to begin with!

Who climbed on top of me or behind me in our bed or over the balcony one lunch break or two a.m. conference call time and recharted my entire existence before abandoning me out in the middle of the ocean to survive on my own.

ForFederationsake , where is the emotional equivalent to the Coast Guard when you need them?!

All of a sudden, the doorbell rings, buying me an overdue moment of reprieve.

Knowing it’s probably Calen – who I bribed to attend the event with me by ordering him some very expensive surfboard wax – I helplessly grin over the reinforcement I know he’s going to be for team “No Pregnant Seahorse”.

The guy has my back.

Whether we’re on the water or on the shore, I know he’s here for me.

Where his allegiance lies.

It’s why he hasn’t complained once about the media implying that we’re together and why he hasn’t told me his thoughts on the father of my child.

That’s not what I need right now.

So, that’s not what he’s giving me.

Which is exactly what makes him a better bestie than J.T., who considers space to only be a thing of the final frontier.

Casually opening the door immediately reveals to me a not so casual sight.

In fact, it’s a sight I haven’t seen in what feels like forever.

Rather than rush to say anything, Wes allows me a moment in silence to drink in his signature, designer black suit.

The fitted black tee underneath.

It’s impossible to ignore his crisp white shoes that are making his matching pocket square pop.

His freshly cut hair and even fresher scented cologne both inform me of exactly how recent his transformation from unreachable alcoholic to apologetic asshole truly is.

And he is an asshole.

Regardless of the tears I can see struggling not to form in his mismatched gaze.

Gah, is it wrong to hope our son has that?

I say son because there’s no fucking way I’m having a girl.

I can’t have a girl.

I can barely have me.

Wes pushes his shoulders slightly back, the same direction his hands appear to be folded. “May I please come in?”

Retreating occurs in tandem with emotionlessly retorting, “Your name’s on the lease too, so do whatever you want.”

“Yes; however, it’s your name on the building.”

“Wait,” abruptly stopping precedes a quirked eyebrow, “we own the building ?”

“ You. ” He remains in place. “ You own the building.”

“Since when?!”

“Since yesterday.”

“What?!”

“This is your home and the home of our child regardless of whatever happens between us.”

Conflicting emotions don’t hesitate to go to war, and the strife leaves me speechless.

And anxious.

And annoyed.

And wishing there were no consequences to have a shot or four while pregnant.

After clearing his throat, Wes repeats his question, “May I please come in?”

I opt out of verbally answering with a wave of my hand once I’m stationed back in the middle of the room near the coffee table.

“Why aren’t you appropriately dressed?” Our favorite redhead unhappily grumbles as he enters the penthouse, shutting the door behind him. “ You know better. You are not my headache without a cause to deal with.”

“I have causes,” playfully leaves me in the middle of her tangent.

“ You – may derive pleasure from my irritation over you not wearing a color – but you know the difference between black tie and formal. Formal and business casual. Business casual and business pleasure. Business pleasure and recreational.”

“There cannot possibly be that many different options,” I whisper to my mom.

“ Right? ” she quietly replies.

“You know your attire doesn’t have enough buttons but too few stitches to make a public appearance at the type of event you’re attending tonight, so explain to me – in the least amount of words possible because we clearly do not have time to spare – why on Desiree Gruber’s green earth you are not dressed for the press.”

“You will have your answer in three…” he travels into the room but wisely not closer to me, “two…” his figure stops near the couch, “one…”

Evie’s cell suddenly rings prompting all of us to redirect our attention to her.

Her lack of answering isn’t surprising nor are the hums of agreement she repeatedly makes.

Woman is few of words on the phone.

Likely because she saves them all for when she’s seen in person.

The conversation lasts about a minute before she ends the call to announce, “The Pathological Outliers Gala is being rescheduled due to unforeseen security concerns.” Her suspicious glare swiftly finds her boss’s. “They will be in contact within a week with a rescheduled date.”

Wes’s expression remains stoic. “Sounds like you’re now free for the evening.”

“It does.”

“Why don’t you and your lovely assistant go enjoy dinner on the company?” A tiny flicker of mirth flashes in his gaze. “You’ve put in so many long and hard hours lately, you certainly deserve a bit of downtime.”

“Can we get Japanese?!” Jenni excitedly squeaks. “Ever since I read about Bryn not being able to eat it – pregnancy suck –”

“ Pregnancy does suck ,” I unhappily hiss at him.

“I’ve totally had a craving for sashimi.”

“You can dine wherever you like,” the male in the room informs. “And drink whatever you like. On me.”

“There is a particular champagne that the Charming Chef recommends to go with the multi-course dinner at Adachi’s,” Evie gushes to Jenni in an almost giddy tone. “I’ve been dying to go there ever since.”

“ GetoutGreatOne, I’ve been dying to try that place!”

“ Go ,” Wes warmly encourages with a small nod. “Book a table with my name. Get dressed up. Eat and drink and tip freely.”

“That sounds so bardownsky!”

“I don’t know what the means,” our publicist sighs at the same time she stands. “However, I’m willing to learn over something that sparkles.” What appears to be an almost flirtatious smile shifts onto her face as she tips her head towards the door, “Shall we?”

“Let’s fuckin’ wheel!” exclaims her assistant during the jumping to her feet.

Their exit is accompanied by tiny finger waves and the man that’s keeping his distance asking, “How was your day off, Lauren?”

“I don’t know if I would label holding my daughter’s hair back while she pukes and fighting over takeout menus and celebrity word searches as a day off , but all things considered, I was happy to finally spend some time with her.” She offers me a sweet smile. “I think we both needed it.”

We did.

But we didn’t need for her to lecture me about the lack of nutrition in my diet.

Or vitamins.

Or why I should consider playing the baby a little more Beethoven and a little less Bon Jovi.

My suggestion to split the difference and play the tiny thing a bit of Biggie was not welcomed nor well received.

“I absolutely agree.” His head tilts slightly to the side. “I also agree with the notion of you spending the evening with your husband who happens to be waiting in a limo downstairs.” The corner of his lip kicks upward. “I think he mentioned something about Abuela’s Kitchen and salsa dancing?”

Seeing her blue eyes widen ten times their size narrows my stare.

Sneaky, slippery, bastard.

He’s a fucking horn shark!

Slow mover.

Only leaving the shelter to hunt.

And that’s exactly what he did.

Bit down on their shells with force and precision so powerful and accurate they didn’t see it coming.

“We haven’t been there in ages,” Mom swoons as she shifts to a standing position while I drop to a sitting one. “I don’t even know if I have heels for that anymore.”

“Buy some,” my more powerful opponent nonchalantly declares. “ On me. ”

Of course she doesn’t object.

Or argue.

Or insist otherwise.

She simply squeals like the others, cups his cheeks in motherly fashion during her passing by, and lovingly wags a finger at me prior to exiting.

I don’t know why she’s scolding me.

She’s the traitor.

Clearly part of this Khitomer like cabal against me.

Once the door is securely shut, leaving us completely alone, I look up at the saboteur and sneer, “Amazing how you managed to sweep everyone off their feet except me.” Wiggling around in the uncomfortable evening gown fabric is attached to another jeer. “Guess having someone gift me real estate just isn’t that romantic to me.”

An unpredicted collection of syllables clumsily leaves him.

Certain I misheard him is what pushes me to snip, “ What? ”

Wes sucks in a deep breath.

Crosses the short distance over to me.

Lowers himself to his knees directly in front of me and reveals a single red rose alongside the repeating of his gibberish.

Yet it’s not gibberish.

And it’s not a mixture of butchered Russian and French.

It’s an actual language.

Just one he’s not speaking very well.

Against my own volition, I adoringly coo, “Your Klingonaase is terrible.”

“And that’s after six consecutive hours of practicing.”

Not giggling is impossible.

“I honestly thought J.T. was going to insist on us having a strictly business relationship going forward.”

Additional snickers seep free as my bare shoulders mindlessly melt towards the floor.

“I don’t think I’ve ever studied something so hard in my entire fucking life.”

“ Well played. ” Letting a small smile linger on my face is accompanied by transferring the offering into my possession. “ I accept your surrender, Mr. Wilcox. ”

“ Can you accept my love, Miss Winters? ”

In spite of the sincerity in his tone – and it is undeniably there – I bitterly bite, “Why? Did the whiskey bottles finally stop putting out?”

Hurt glosses over his grim gaze at the same time he concedes, “I deserve that.”

“You deserve castration served by Jaws .”

Discomfort of epic proportion begins building around us.

Between us.

Prompts me to push him away.

Amble elsewhere.

Anywhere that isn’t directly in his presence.

That isn’t making me feel suffocated.

And alienated.

Eventually, I arrive in our bedroom – with him trailing behind – and am exposed to the other dress options, a view that leads to me investigating, “Did you call and cancel Calen coming over tonight?”

Wes leans his shoulder against the doorframe during his declaration, “His presence is no longer required.”

“ Excuse. You, ” I viciously chomp and chuck the flower onto the bed. “That is not your fucking call.”

“I think it is.”

“I think what you think when it comes to me and my life doesn’t fucking matter, Weston.” Impatience to get out of the scratchy material increases with an unsurpassable vengeance. “Kind of like what I think doesn’t fucking matter when it comes to yours. ”

“It does matter, Brynley.”

“Does it?” Mockingly escapes in a high-pitched tone. “That’s why during your daddy drama episode you shut me out of your life?” Trying to reach the back zipper becomes my new task. “That’s why you wouldn’t let me be there for you ?” More awkward twisting is executed. “That’s why you didn’t answer my calls? My texts?!” Frustration filled swiveling continues. “That’s why you missed my fucking doctor’s appointment?!” I can’t stop the fury filled fidgeting. “That’s why I went into that appointment with Hill , sobbing like a nerd in the 90s that just found out they cancelled Next Gen ?! Because what I think or do or feel matters to you?!!”

Rather than touch a single word of my accusations, he softly proposes his assistance, “May I unzip you?”

“Why?!” defiantly leaves me. “I’ve been learning to do pretty much everything else on my fucking own! Why not this too?!”

“ Because you don’t have to ,” he replies without reluctance. “ Because you never should’ve had to. ”

“You’re damn right I shouldn’t have!”

“ I made mistakes- ”

“ Several. ”

“ And. I. Am. So. Fucking. Sorry. ” His lower half twitches like it’s considering moving closer, yet he stays put. Maintains the distance I’ve created. “ Klingonaase doesn’t exactly have that phrase-”

“It’s really not something you should say when you’re part of a warrior clan.”

“-so I substituted it for the one I learned because it was the most fitting.”

My squirming completely ceases.

“However, I am so, so sorry, Bryn.” I watch his Adam’s Apple nervously bob. “And I understand that saying those words is not enough. That saying those words does not undo the damage that I’ve caused.”

“Not by a longshot.”

“ But they still needed to be said. ”

Sardonically nodding precedes a wave of the hand. “You’ve said them. You can go now.”

“ No. ”

“My building, my choice.”

“My fuck up, my fix.”

It’s difficult to hide the impressed smirk the words conjure.

“I respect that I am no longer someone you can rely on, that that trust has been broken. That’s why you call Calen and Lauren. I respect that I am no longer someone you can talk to you. That’s why you text Calen and Vanessa. I respect that I am no longer someone you believe will protect you. That’s why you let Calen and Hill know your whereabouts. I respect your decisions no matter how much I fucking hate them.”

There’s no stopping my eyebrow from quirking.

“ And I fucking hate them, Brynley. ” He shoves a hand into his pants suit pocket. “Yet the thing I hate the most isn’t that you’ve turned to other men to fulfill your needs – which is surprising considering my high loathing of it – it’s that I didn’t keep up my end of our agreement. You agreed to be mine and then I abandoned you .”

Surprise over the statement lowers my jaw.

“You agreed to belong to me and only me under the pretense that I would be there to belong to.” Another hard swallow is taken. “ And I wasn’t. ”

Speechlessness – a rarity for me – continues to rule my system.

“ I breeched this contract, Miss Winters. ” A small sniffle presents itself. “Therefore…if you choose to consider this relationship null and void, I will respect that.” Tears can’t be kept out of his tone. “ I’ll fucking hate it …but I’ll respect it.” The trembling in his frame threatens to create one in my own. “ You. ”

In a voice that’s more air than anything else, I cautiously investigate, “And if I don’t?”

“Then I will prove you to every day why not dissolving this partnership was the second-best choice you ever made.”

“The first being the agreement to be together to begin with?”

“ Yes. ”

Not smirking doesn’t cross my mind.

“You deserve a better partnership, Brynley. One where you don’t have to feel guilty for choosing your career over mine at times. One where you don’t have to justify not wanting to put on your ‘Fiancée Face’ or play press puppet-”

“J.T.’s job.”

“-simply for the shareholders benefits. One where your significant other holds out his open arms for whatever bullshit you need him to after a long a day. One where…he will turn to you rather than a bottle for solace when his world is completely turned upside down without his permission.”

“And what exactly is to stop him from reaching for the company brand whenever the waters get a little too choppy or a shit storm hits our coastline?”

“His rather strict substance abuse regimen created by his physician and psychiatrist, backed by his best friend and honorary godfather.”

Intrigue cocks my head.

Inches me closer.

Inspires me to insist, “ Go on. ”

“I am on the other side of the physical detox,” Wes openly confesses. “It was uglier than the first time by vast portions. I was properly monitored around the clock and while I’m grateful you weren’t there to see the vomiting or the shaking or the hallucinations, you were the person I wanted there the most. And the only reason I didn’t reach for you then was because it would’ve been a selfish prick move to not be there for you when you needed me then expect you to be there for me when I wanted you.”

“ Extremely, ” I whisper out and close the gap slightly more. “ But I still would’ve been. ”

Because I love him.

Because in spite of all the bullshit he’s put me through for the past few weeks, I still care about him.

Give all the fucks .

Especially when it comes to his health.

His sobriety.

I know it was the alcohol putting the divide between us – a divide I will not stand for again – but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to suffer through trying to get out of its hold without me.

If I learned anything from my father’s gambling addiction, it’s that not having support always leads to a greater fall.

“For the next few weeks, I’m still on a heavily supervised diet – that Lucky is doing his best to be creative with – to ensure my system receives the right increase of good and the best decrease of bad. I’m allowed to begin running in a couple days. Lifting weights next week. I am no longer allowed any alcohol – not even sampling for work which J.T. understands as well as supports – and all alcohol currently on the estate premises is locked up in a single cellar to which Clark and Lauren possess the only key.”

The new information successfully gets me creeping closer.

And closer.

“Dr. Sawyer – my psychiatrist – is currently taking up residence in one of the guesthouses to aid in recovery counseling, coaching, and management. I currently see him three times a day to discuss my progress, my actions, and my personal self-villains.”

“Three times a day?!”

“ Yes. ” For the first time since this conversation started, he takes a step towards me. “And I will continue to see him three times a day until I only need to see him for two. And then until I only need to see him once. And then once a week, which is when he can move out. And then I’ll see him once a month – still in person. And then once every six weeks – still in person. And then whatever it is we come to the conclusion that I need regarding what I’m now accepting is a lifelong journey.”

Awe drops my voice to a hushed volume. “ Seriously? ”

“ Seriously, baby. ” His frame arrives in the space directly in front of mine. “The only thing I’m more committed to than my sobriety is my relationship with you. ” Wes’s white sneaker covered toes innocently brush against my bare ones, stealing a breath out of my lungs. “So…if that means we need to start at the very beginning again with crossword dates and driving you to work, then we will. If that means sleeping in separate homes until our baby arrives, I accept that. If it means sleeping on the couch in the other room once he or she is born, then I’ll upgrade to a more comfortable one. If it means you not wearing your engagement ring again until they’re three, then I’ll make sure to keep it locked in my comic book vault. And it means you not being willing to marry me until they’re seven and asking can they go away for their slumber party, then so be it. I’ll keep Valora on retainer, so we have first priority when the day finally comes.”

Words rush to come out yet are out paced by a swoon courtesy of his hand gently cupping the nape of my neck.

“ Say you’re mine again, Bryn, and I swear you’ll never regret it. ”

“ Yours, ” barely manages to leave my lips before he’s smashing his on top.

The initial impact is familiar yet foreign.

Intense but inviting.

Rough and soft and strong and light all in the same breath.

Our tongues tumultuously tangle, each taking unpredictable turns to tease the other, equally wanting and needing and desperate for control as much as surrender.

Wes’s fingers suddenly tighten, anchoring themselves onto the territory they’re currently occupying. The possessive pull inward prompts a loud, body shaking moan outward that stumbles his mouth off mine.

Like a little lost fin bearing creature his mouth frenziedly searches for something to devour.

Something to sink its teeth into.

Light grazes across my cheek progress into nips that scatter along my jaw before evolving into bites that litter the length of my neck.

Glide across my throat.

Glissade up to my ear.

The lobe.

The shell.

Needy whimpers propel past my parted lips at the same time my hands greedily grab onto his jacket.

“ I know you hate me, little prey, ” Wes airily proclaims, “ but can you hate me while I’m deep inside of you? ”

Yanking him into me and me into him is mindlessly attached to my equally breathless answer, “ I’m willing to try. ”

Ferocious groans are instantly followed by a much more vicious bite.

Getting me out of the gown isn’t a gentle feat, and I’m grateful.

The ripping and tearing of the material creates a salacious symphony around our penthouse bedroom that I haven’t heard in a hot Star Trek binge session or two. Thuds and thumps are closely trailed by clashes and clangs as clothes are exiled to the very edges of the space where they cling onto things like our chaise lounge and floor lamp for dear life.

We don’t bother pushing the rejected dresses to the ground or rearranging the pillows to be beneficial. We simply get lost in pouncing and pawing and preying on each other like insatiable creatures unexpectedly released back into the wild.

And wild is unquestionably what we become.

Chomping.

Clawing.

Colliding.

Recklessly jerking ourselves around to keep our lips locked and tongues furiously lashing.

Ending up with Wes flat on his back, leg spreads wide, with me facing away and mine dangling over his curled arms as my nails scratch at the mattress for stability while struggling to withstand the force of his frantic bucking isn’t at all how I imagined our makeup session unfolding.

I arch myself forward into the frenetic fucking, body being bounced around as if I weigh practically nothing.

My inability to do very little, other than concede to having my pussy stretched further and further, leads to me squeezing my eyes shut.

Letting my head fall forward.

My jaw to my sweat covered lap.

Air relentlessly fights to find its way into my burning lungs but is repeatedly banished by barbaric blow after blow.

Hisses are continuously expelled during the heaving.

Growls around the savage thrusting.

Grunts when his strained arms flex to primitively pound harder.

Deeper.

Manically mold my helpless, contorted frame into a misshaped mess that belongs to him and only him.

“ Mine ,” is practically barked in between pants. “ Only. Mine. ”

It’s impossible to answer as my tits pitilessly bounce and my pussy pleads for a moment of reprieve.

The tighter the sopping wet muscles grow the more determined my fiancé becomes not to allow it. “ Say it for me, baby. ”

His gruffly spoken words grate along my spine.

Send shivers through my sore legs and curled toes.

“ Say you’re mine. ”

I don’t hesitate to do what I’m told, yet the turbulent thrusting hinders my capability.

“ Say. It. ” Wes demands during additional pumps. “ Say what I wanna hear. ”

Another attempt to cry out is ceased by a rough stroke.

One that causes my dripping wet pussy to anxiously constrict.

Threaten to come undone.

“ Say what I need to hear, little prey, ” the man of heart purrs, untamed thrashes faltering. “ Say that you’re still mine. ” His dick swells in warning that he’s also on the brink. “ Say you’re still mine to fucking worship. ”

Melting is effortless.

“ Mine to fucking have. ”

There’s no resisting the orgasmic tidal wave rolling in.

“ Mine to fucking love. ”

“ Yours, ” finally escapes in a whispered surrender during one last shudder. “ Always yours, Wes. ”

Without further vacillation, we erupt into thousands of tiny, trembling, delirious pieces again and again and again, until we’re left with no choice but to rhapsodically recreate something built from blistering bursts and unremitting pulsations.

Something rewritten in thick, white ink on soaking wet walls.

Something new.

Something unstoppable.

Something whole.