Satin Princess(48)

I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds as nameless emotions squiggle through me. “You really think so?”

“It’s hard to mistake a man in love.”

I feel my heart twist a little because I’m really not sure that her observation is at all accurate. Anton in love?

No way.

Anton in love with me?

That makes even less sense.

And even if he does have some semblance of feeling for me, how long will it last? Until I have his baby? Five years? Ten?

I feel as though I can’t count on this… whatever this is. And any time I feel even the slightest bit confident that maybe I actually can, I remember how badly I’ve misjudged both people and situations in the past.

Some wounds never scar up. They just bleed and bleed forever.





*



I spend almost two blissful hours in the kitchen with Margaret before Thomas appears to tell me that Anton is looking for me.

I find him in the dining area. It’s a splendid room framed on either side by glass bay windows with cushioned seats. The wall around the windows holds inlaid bookshelves loaded with endless leatherbound tomes.

Anton is standing by the windows with his back to me. He turns slowly to face me as I enter.

“Hi,” I say. “You were asking for me?”

“Have you been on your feet this whole time?” he asks, frowning.

I’m both annoyed that he’s treating me like some fragile object and touched that he seems to care so much. But the voice in the back of my head is telling me not to read into it too much. He’s just worried about his baby. You are only important insofar as you’re carrying it. A means to an end.

“I decided to help Margaret in the kitchen,” I say. “I didn’t even feel the time pass.”

“You should sit down.”

I roll my eyes and make my way to where he’s standing. “You’re fussing over nothing, Anton.”

“You almost died,” he points out.

“But I didn’t,” I say. “I’m not being irresponsible. If I thought I was doing anything that would put strain on the baby, I would stop. You don’t have to worry.”

He looks at me sharply. “Is that the only reason you think I care?”

Before I can answer, Thomas walks into the living room. He’s followed by two members of the kitchen staff carrying silver trays.

The first one has a roast chicken that’s charred to perfection and dripping in a delicious-looking golden sauce. The second platter is filled with roasted vegetables.

“Are you two ready for dinner?” Thomas asks.

“Please tell me you’ll be joining us,” I say. “I would so love it.”

Thomas looks uncertain. “Oh, well… I’m not sure…”

“Please,” I say again, hands clasped in front of my face. “I begged Margaret to let me chop potatoes, and now, I’m begging you to eat them with us.”

He flushes happily. “I suppose we can make that happen. Margaret and I would be thrilled. Let me just go tell her now.”

He ducks out of the room and I turn to Anton. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would I mind?”

The answer that springs to my lips is, I have no freaking clue what you want and why you want it. I don’t know anything that goes on behind your eyes. You’ve been sweet and you’ve been angry, you’ve been tender and you’ve been cruel. I’m lost in you and I’m drowning in you and I just need you to give me something. Some little thing to cling to. That’s all. I’m not asking for much.

Instead, all I say is, “I don’t know.”

His brood deepens, if that’s even a thing. “You look tired,” he says.

“I’m fine. Like I told you.”

“Still,” he says, wrinkling his nose, “just to be safe, we’ll go to bed after dinner.”

“Oh,” I stutter. “Uh, okay. Just, are we…”

“Yes?”

“Are we getting two rooms or one?”

It seems like an innocent enough question in my head. But the moment I ask it, I realize how loaded it really is.

“Well, it would be odd to ask for two rooms now that they think we’re a married couple, don’t you agree?”

“Oh. Right. Duh.”

My blush must give me away, because he asks, “Something bothering you, Jessa?”

I open my mouth. Now would be the time to just come right out and ask him what our plan is. How I factor into his life now that Marina is alive.

But once again, the words I ought to say just won’t come.

“Maybe I am a little tired,” I say.

“Don’t worry. We’ll have an early dinner and then we can go to bed.”

We can go to bed. I feel like an idiot for being so damn affected by those words. By how normal they sound. How domestic.

So I bury those thoughts in the same dark place I bury all the other ones like them.

But even as I do, I know there’s no way around it.

I want Anton.

I love Anton.

And I’m terrified to the very core of me that I won’t get to keep him.





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