I couldn't stop shaking.
The television still flickered in the living room, muted now, but every channel looped the same grainy photos of me stepping out of the clinic, Theo's hand splayed over the tiny swell of my stomach like a brand. The word MISTAKE crawled across the bottom of the screen in red.
Theo had carried me to the bedroom after the second round of slow, desperate sex, laid me on fresh sheets, and wrapped me in his arms. His chest rose and fell against my back, steady, strong, alive. But the panic wouldn't leave my body.
He felt it. Of course he did.
"Nora," he murmured into my hair, voice rough from whispering promises against my skin. "Talk to me."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"I've never told anyone the whole story," I whispered.
He pressed a kiss to the bite mark on my shoulder. "Then tell me."
So I did.
