The Beast part 29

HAZEL

Only five people resign from the estate over the next week. They’re all young and the majority is male. Eager to explore the outside world just like I was. Ronan is generous. He sent them off on their journey with provisions to last them a week.

It’s these little things that make me fall deeper in love with him.

His gunshot wound is healing slowly, but he carries on as if he forgets the injury is there. At night, I help him change his dressings and embrace him, kissing onto his skin a hundred reasons why I’m grateful for him.

My mother and I have been getting closer. We catch up on the days we were apart. She occasionally asks about Dakota, but I don’t know how she is doing. Ronan’s guards tossed her out of the estate as she kicked and screamed. After banging on the gates for a few hours, demanding to be let back inside and reminding them that she’s a former mistress, she gave up and left. The estate hasn't heard from her since.

I met Ronan’s close friend, Walker, who looked over the estate as Ronan tore the world apart in search of me. He was intoxicated, although only a keen eye could notice. He carried himself with confidence, standing tall and not swaying. He even spoke eloquently. The only giveaways were his glassy eyes, the scent of alcohol that clouded him, and the way he intimately nursed a glass of whiskey to his chest.

Ronan told me Walker has always been a fan of whiskey even when they were in the military together. But the addiction started after the experiments. I wondered how he could rule his own estate while not being fully engaged. There’s so much chaos in an estate that it’s always at risk of burning down. But Walker proved himself to be highly-functioning with his glassy blue eyes, slow, knowing chuckle and the smile that never reached his eyes.

There is pain in that man. I recognize it, because I’ve seen it in Ronan. It’s like a burden of being a lord. But it’s not my place to question either his past or present. I can only hope he stays safe because he means a lot to Ronan.

“Hazel.”

I wipe my hands on my apron and look up to meet Ronan’s narrowed eyes.

“Why are you in the kitchen?” he grunts, displeased. “I told you that you don’t have to do this anymore. You are not a servant.”

“But I am,” I chuckle. “I grew up as a servant and I can never bury that no matter how many silky sheets I lay under in your bed.”

He leans against the wall, making the kitchen seem a lot smaller. His eyes trail up and down my body. Straying around my chest. There’s a stain on my apron, but I don’t think that’s what he’s captivated by. It’s the wet spot on my white dress that’s revealing my red bra underneath.

Sensing the tension, Gwen lowers her knife on the cutting board and mutters a few words to excuse herself.

“I need to cook to keep myself busy,” I explain. “I can’t follow you around the estate all day. You have plenty to do.”

“You can help me. I know that you read all the books in the library, including the accounting ones.”

I snort unattractively, but none of my quirks ever seem to phase him. “Reading accounting 101 does not qualify me to track the moneyflow of your estate.”

“You keep saying your estate, and it’s starting to anger me,” he says, looking stern. “It’s not mine. It’s ours.”

Maybe his head got grazed by a bullet, too. The man is going crazy. Mistress or not, I did nothing to earn myself the rights to this estate. I almost didn’t have the backbone to claim the title and put Dakota in her place.

“Mhmm, whatever you say,” I reply. “Here. Taste this marinara sauce and tell me if you like it.”

I cup a hand under the spoon as I lift it to his lips. His tongue cups the spoon first, flooding heat into my bloodstream. He watches me closely as I bite my lip, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me.

“It’s delicious,” he says. “Did you make this?”

“Yes,” I smile softly and return to the safety of the sink. “Trying a new recipe. I want to stay busy, you know?”

I’m staying busy to forget the trauma that keeps me up at night. To forget the sound of the gun going off and Ronan’s grunt of pain.

Ronan watches for a minute as I begin to wash the dishes.

“Can I ask you something?” comes his voice. It’s deep, rumbling, and dangerous although he’s many feet away.

“Of course.”

“When you were at the doctor’s office and he treated you, he gave you medication to prevent…”

To prevent pregnancy.

This was a week ago. He hasn’t brought it up since we returned to the estate.

“Did you take the pill?”

My heart falls to my stomach, where his child could very well be growing. No, I didn’t take the pill, and I’m not entirely sure why. Ronan didn’t demand that I did. He left the power in my hands and I chose perhaps the stupidest decision.

The gunshot and kidnapping struck a fear in my heart. I almost lost Ronan, and as selfish as it is, I felt that I wanted him inside me–at least a version of him. Safe and sound in my womb. I acted out of fear and love and didn’t take the pill. Fear of loss but love of the idea of giving him a family.

“I did…not,” I whisper right as the teapot starts squealing. Like the pressure is about to explode.

“I see,” Ronan whispers, his voice monotone.

Nothing is guaranteed yet. I haven’t felt any pregnancy symptoms, so his seed may have not taken root. But Ronan shows no ounce of excitement. I can’t blame him. He didn’t ask me to take the pills or to forsake them, but it’s clear he’s unsure about the possibility of fatherhood.

I was rash. I should have asked him about it instead of being a coward and leaving the pill on the counter.

“Are you…upset?” I ask softly.

He clears his throat and exhales, thinking about my question. The silence gives me all the answers I need.

“I will be honest, because you deserve it. I am not pleased by this news.”

The cup I’m washing nearly slips from my hold.

Fuck. I messed up. Does he feel trapped? Is he not ready because he’s unsure of us?

“I understand,” I reply, my voice strong although tears stream down my cheeks and land on the glass.

“I’m sorry that’s not what you wanted to hea,” he says.

“I’ll have dinner ready soon,” I reply, changing the topic. “Should be done in an hour.”

In truth, dinner would be done in fifteen minutes. But I need time to gather myself before I can sit with him, eat dinner, and pretend like fine.

I need time to cry into my mother’s arms before I can return to his.

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