Page 40

Chapter forty

Levana

The delicate gold and sapphires catch in the slither of morning light that’s cracking through the curtains.

I can’t believe I’m engaged.

I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. The second he asked, it just hit me—this rush, this wave , something huge and engulfing and impossible to name.

I couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to say no.

My gaze drifts around the room, searching for my new fiancé.

The bed feels a little too wide without him. This is strange. He’s never not by my side.

I sit up a little, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “Patrick?”

Nothing.

Just as the first pang of unease prickles at my spine, the door swings open.

“There she is,” he grins, voice sugary sweet. “My beautiful fiancée, queen of the sheets, Mrs. Dalton-to-be.”

He’s holding a tray with two mugs of coffee, a stack of pancakes dripping in syrup, strawberries sliced into heart shapes, and what looks like scrambled eggs, somehow moulded into the shape of a smiley face.

“Did you carve strawberries into hearts?” I ask.

“I did,” he says proudly. “You deserve pretty things.”

I fully, unashamedly melt.

He sets the tray down on my lap, and crawls onto the bed beside me. He’s in his sweatpants, his blond hair’s a mess, and he’s absolutely beaming like I’ve just agreed to marry him all over again.

God, he’s so handsome. Stupidly handsome. Unfairly handsome. Especially when he’s like this—soft eyed and smiling like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.

He leans in and brushes his lips over mine, just a whisper of a kiss, more warm than wanting. Then another, pressed to the corner of my mouth. My cheek. My forehead.

“My girl,” he murmurs, and something in me glows red hot. “My pretty, perfect, beautiful girl.”

I snort against his neck, but he doesn’t let up. If anything, he doubles down.

“What do you want to do today, hmm? Anything you want. We could stay in bed forever, watch movies, braid each other’s hair, make vows with blood and feathers—whatever you want, Levana. I’m yours.”

I laugh. “Blood and feathers?”

“I’m just saying,” he grins. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my fiancée.”

Except let me leave.

Shut up.

His voice softens, thumb brushing over the ring on my finger. “My future wife.”

Then he shifts, leaning down until his mouth is hovering over the swell of my belly, splaying his palm against it.

“Good morning, little loves,” he murmurs. “Did you sleep well in there? Hmm?”

My throat tightens, emotion bunching in my chest as I run my fingers through his hair.

This is why I said yes.

He sits up and kisses the tip of my nose, then trails another one across my cheek. “How about you eat up and we go for a little walk in the garden, huh?”

My stomach flutters. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he says, lips brushing against the shell of my ear. “You’re such a good girl. It’s the least I could do.”

I shiver. Can’t help it. The compliment sinks into me like warm honey.

“Oh,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my skin. “You like that?”

He presses his lips to the spot beneath my ear, and I squirm beneath the sheets in anticipation.

“Actually,” he says, voice low and wicked. ”Is it okay if I have my breakfast first?”

I nod, fast. I can’t form a word. My body’s already responding, already burning, and he’s barely even touched me yet.

He reaches for the breakfast tray resting across my lap, and slides it away before yanking down the sheets.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dragging his eyes down my body. “Look at you.”

Before I can say a word, he grips my thighs and pulls me down the bed, shifting me from propped-up luxury to laid-out offering. My back hits the mattress. Legs parted.

He tears my underwear down my legs and tosses them to the side without looking. His hands grip my thighs and spread them wide.

Then he dives in.

His tongue hits my clit and I jolt, a sharp gasp ripping out of me. He doesn’t ease in—he licks me like he knows exactly what I need. There’s nothing slow or gentle about it. He’s messy, relentless, and focused.

“Fuck—Patrick,” I pant, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. Just groans into my pussy like he’s getting off on how wrecked I already am.

His tongue flicks over my clit again and again while he shoves two fingers inside me, curling just right until I cry out.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls. “Dirty girl.”

I’m soaked. Squirming. My thighs shake but he’s holding me down, mouth locked on me, fingers pumping fast and rough. I can hear it—how wet I am, how filthy it sounds when he fucks me with his hand and sucks my clit like he’s obsessed.

“Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” I beg, hips grinding against his face.

He growls, low and deep, and then I feel it—his third finger pushing inside me.

I gasp, body jerking. “Fuck—Patrick!”

“Yeah?” he says, voice rough, mouth still hot against my clit. “You can take it. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

His fingers stretch me open as he works me harder, knuckles hitting deep.

“You’re dripping,” he mutters. “Fucking soaking my hand. You gonna come for me, baby? Get me even messier?”

I’m close. My legs are shaking, my hips grinding down like I need more, even though he’s giving me everything. His fingers don’t slow, and his mouth is locked on me, sucking, licking, and owning me.

“Come on, dirty girl,” he growls. “Give it to me. Let me feel it.”

It hits fast, tightening low in my belly and then snapping all at once. My legs go stiff, back arching hard as everything clenches around his fingers. My pussy grips him tight, pulsing in waves that won’t stop. He keeps licking through it, tongue flicking right over my clit as he guides me through every last second of it.

“Just like that,” he mutters against my skin. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

My body’s limp by the time he finally pulls his fingers out, and I feel empty without them. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean like he’s tasting dessert, eyes never leaving mine.

“Good girl, Mrs. Dalton,” he says with a smirk. “Time to eat now, huh?”

The ground squelches beneath my boots, and the air bites at my cheeks as snow drifts lazily through the tree branches.

The yard is bigger than it looks from inside. Wide, open stretches of patchy grass, sloping gently toward a line of tangled trees that reach high in the back. There’s no fence, just hedges and wilderness.

Patrick walks beside me, one hand draped at the small of my back, the other cradling my gloved hand. He’s wearing a soft navy jumper I love, one that clings to his forearms, and his breath fogs in front of him with each slow exhale.

“This is nice,” I say softly, my voice muffled in the cold. “Didn’t think your garden was this big.”

“You’ve barely seen anything, baby. There’s still so much I want to show you,” he says as he slows us down near a bare rose bush, the branches brittle with frost. He glances up at the woods. “Used to be a path that way. We could take it if you want? Leads you right to the old greenhouse.”

“Yeah,” I say, glancing through the trees. “That’d be nice.”

The path is mostly just a groove in the earth, half-swallowed by roots and damp leaves, but it’s there. We follow it in silence, boots crunching gently over the thin layer of ice crusted across the undergrowth.

Patrick stops dead.

His whole body tenses. “What was that?”

My pulse flutters.

What was what? I didn’t hear a thing.

“Probably just a squirrel or something.” I say.

He doesn’t move.

“Patrick?”

“Could’ve been a branch,” he mutters, eyes darting between the tree trunks. “Could’ve been anything.”

He finally moves again, but slower this time, scanning the shadows.

“You know,” he says after a moment. “I want to do so much for them out here. The twins. Maybe a little pool for summer. Something shallow and warm with those inflatable rings they can float in. Maybe even one of those water slides—you know, the kind that attaches to a hose and soaks the whole yard.”

I smile at the thought of it. Two chubby toddlers giggling, splashing around in the shade, smelling of sunblock and frozen fruit.

“I was going to build Alexander a treehouse,” he adds. “Had it all planned out in my head. Rope ladder. Skylight. But I just never got round to it. Maybe I could do it next summer. So they can all have their own little den out here when they’re bigger. Tea parties, and little adventures.”

I lean my head against his shoulder as we walk, the steady rhythm of our footsteps filling the air between us.

We reach the old greenhouse, its frame half hidden by the snow and vines. The glass panes are cracked in places, and the door creaks as Patrick pushes it open.

He steps inside, and I follow him. The scent of damp wood and mildew tangles into the cold air, and wraps around me like a second skin.

He glances around, eyes taking in the forgotten space.

“Could fix this up,” he says. “Get rid of the glass, make it into a playroom. Could put in a bench, some tables. Wouldn’t even need to go inside when it’s nice out.”

I stay quiet for a moment, my fingers curling into my sleeves as I watch him, the vision of what could be hanging in the air like smoke. He’s still talking, barely pausing for breath, as if his mind is speeding ahead, constructing more plans, more futures. More paths this could take.

“We could be out here all the time, you know,” he says, eyes still flicking across the greenhouse like he can already see it—fresh paint, toys on the floor, sunlight spilling across soft blankets. “Me, you, Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly.”

My breath catches, just for a second.

“Fuck Mara. Not her. But us seven.” He turns to look at me with a feverish shine in his eyes. “A family.”

His hand wraps around mine again, a little too tight.

“Don’t you want that?” he asks, head tilted. “Don’t you want this ?”

“I do,” I say, nodding. “Of course I do.”

His brow furrows and his eyes narrow. “That took you a little too long to answer.”

I blink. “What? No, it didn’t. I answered straight a—“

“Levana,” he says sharply. “Don’t you want this?”

My smile falters. “I just said I did, Patrick.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just stands there, eyes darting between mine like he’s searching for a lie I haven’t told yet.

“Patrick,” I try, soft. “I just agreed to marry you last night.”

He flinches.

“I know,” he mutters. “I know. I know that. I do. It’s just—”

His eyes squint through the greenhouse glass as he sweeps the trees. “It’s too open out here.”

“What?”

He shakes his head, taking a half-step back. “It’s too exposed. Someone could be watching.”

“No one’s watching. Patrick, it’s just us.”

“You don’t know that!” he snaps, then immediately winces, like the volume hurt his own ears. “You don’t know who’s out there. You don’t know what they’re planning. They could be waiting, Levana. Just waiting for you to slip. For me to slip. For— fuck . Inside. Come on. We need to go back inside.”

“Patrick, you’re scaring me—”

“I’m keeping you safe.” He doesn’t look at me. He’s already moving, dragging me with him, speeding up with each and every step until I’m out of breath, and the babies are jumping on my bladder.

By the time we reach the back door, he’s chanting the same seven names under his breath, over and over again.

“Patrick, Levana, Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly.”

His grip on my hand doesn’t ease until the door is shut, locked, and double checked.

He exhales shakily, fingers still twitching at the deadbolt. “Probably for the best we don’t leave again, okay, baby?”

I nod, wide-eyed. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.”

My heart’s hammering, pulse pounding in my throat from whatever the fuck just happened.

He brushes a kiss against my temple, smoothing my hair back. “You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs. “You always know what’s best for the family.”

And I just smile. Because I don’t know what else to do.