I looked up at my husband, at the silvery line down his face. I’d never asked him where he’d gotten that scar. It seemed rude to bring it up without him volunteering that information. But now, as I stared at his guarded face, his eyes hidden behind lowered brows, I realized that scar hadn’t come from an accident.
It was too perfect. Too deliberate.
No, someone had taken that beautiful face and tried to spite it. And yet, they—whoever they were—had had a poor idea of what beauty was because his scar did nothing to diminish him.
My stomach tightened and I closed my eyes as the image of his face over mine, half lit by the chandelier in our bedroom, burst into my mind. It was perfect just like the faces of the stone angels he poured so much of himself into.
And if I let it, that face had the potential to destroy my fragile heart.
In the cold wind, I shuddered. His mouth pressed into a thin line and his brows lowered. Those golden eyes dropped to the ground and he pushed his hands in his pockets. Something had happened this morning and we were both just beginning to realize it.
The guarded parts of ourselves had brushed.
“We should go,” he said, his voice brittle.
He lifted his gaze to mine and his iron gates had closed. He’d spun the pages and the vulnerability and anger was gone. In their place was nothing but emptiness. I swallowed back the lump in my throat and turned and began walking toward the car. His footsteps followed me, but I kept my head down and opened the car door for myself.
When we walked back into the house, he went to change to go into the office. I found a book and curled up on the couch to read for a while before I went to the academy to practice. When he appeared in the doorway, he wore a gray, herringbone suit and he had a silver thermos in his hand.
“Are you pregnant?”
I startled, closing my book with a snap. “No.”
His gaze narrowed. “There’s an unopened test on the sink. Did you think you were pregnant?”
For some reason, this conversation was making me blush. I laid aside the book and picked at the blanket in my lap.
“I didn’t think I was, but I just wanted to take one because I’m supposed to start my period soon,” I said. “And we weren’t exactly careful. You came in me while I was ovulating that night on the stairs.”
“You’re already due for your period again?”
“I have short cycles. Unfortunately.”
His jaw worked. “Do you mind to take it now?”
“Why?”
“So I don’t have to work all afternoon wondering if you’re knocked up.”
That was reasonable. I pushed aside the blanket and moved past him and headed up the stairs. To my discomfort, he followed me and lingered in the bathroom door. I shifted uncomfortably, clutching the test in my fist. He blinked, not moving.
“Do you need me to leave?” he asked, as if it were a ridiculous prospect.
“No,” I snapped, suddenly annoyed.
He pushed his hands in his pockets, watching me with that heavy smolder. Gazing down at me, waiting to find out if all the fucking he’d done over the last month had had consequences. Feeling warm beneath my sweater, I wriggled my pants around my thighs and sat down on the toilet, slipping the uncapped test between my legs. He kept his gaze on me, not allowing me a shred of dignity, while I took the test.
“Here,” I said stiffly, capping it and passing it to him.
He flipped his wrist, checking his watch, and stood with the test in his palm. Eyes locked on it. I pulled my pants back on and washed my hands, trying to act casual.
“Negative,” he said, tossing it into the trash.
“I thought it might be. I feel normal,” I said. “Are we going to do this every month?”
He shrugged. “I can knock you up if you want and then we wouldn’t have to. But I don’t know if I’m ready to have a baby yet.”
“Would you like me to get on the pill?”