Page 58 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

My stomach rumbles, hunger clawing at my insides.

I stretch out along the bed, the sensation flooding my arms, legs, and chest with those feel-good endorphins.

I feel grand—kind of amazing, actually. Until the mattress gives under the weight of my falling hand.

Instead of finding Ryan, it only finds space.

No. I swallow over the unspoken word. Not again ...

The sheets rustle as I sit, the lack of noise the first thing I notice. I throw my legs out of bed and slip on last night’s pants, extra careful with the zipper. No need to worry. My pocket-rocket workaholic is probably in the office.

She was more excited about decorating the office than a nursery, my brain unhelpfully supplies as I make my way into the hallway. It doesn’t mean anything. Anything other than she’s been in the world alone for so long her leaps of faith are just hard earned.

But that’s behind us now. She loves me. And with my body, heart, and soul, I’ll always be hers.

There’s no sign of her in her office, so I make my way downstairs. And down again.

Relief I didn’t think I needed floods my nervous system as I find her in the kitchen.

And my barefoot approach means I get to watch her for a moment without her noticing.

Her back to me, she hardly looks pregnant.

Hair piled haphazardly on top of her head, slim shoulders, and that heart-shaped arse.

She’s wearing my shirt from last night—best realization of the morning—plus a pair of pale leggings.

Bent at the waist, she appears to be poring over the book Letty gifted her.

Baby’s First Year .

I wonder idly if she’s not used to receiving gifts or if it’s more the nature of this gift that seems to mean so much. The fact that it’s for our baby.

I’m gonna spoil her so much. The thought gives me such a kick. No more Tube journeys for her. I’m gonna get her a fancy car. A driver if she wants. Holidays. Jewelry ... except she doesn’t wear it. Fuck it, I’m gonna buy it anyway.

I can’t wait to see what life has in store for us.

“Morning. Afternoon? Haven’t checked my phone yet.” Fuck knows what time it is as I wrap my arms around her and press a kiss to her head. Before my noisy stomach makes my feet move in the direction of the fridge.

“You hungry?” I throw over my shoulder as I pull the door wide. “I feel like bacon and eggs. Fancy bacon and eggs?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Have you already eaten?” I rub an itch on my sternum, then begin to rifle through the shelves. “I’m starved.” As usual. “I could eat the hand of God,” I mutter, ducking to better see the lower shelves.

“Matt.”

“Hmm?” Where’s the feckin’ bacon? Cheese. Brie? Nah. Red Leicester. A bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich with lashings of brown sauce. Yes, sounds like just the thing. My guts rumble again.

“Matt,” she calls, a little stronger now. “We need to talk.”

My shoulders stiffen, and the block of cheese hits the glass shelf with a little thud. Nothing good ever came from hearing that sentence.

Fuck, no. We are not having this conversation. We are not in this place. Not after last night. This morning? It’s just a misunderstanding, my brain supplies as I shove the bacon back.

A trick of the memory, of the past. It’s got to be. Until I turn and get a look at her.

My heart sinks. She’s been crying, her eyes red and her skin blotchy. But the most telling fact of all is how she can’t look me in the face.

Bottles and jars rattle as the fridge door slams closed behind me, my feet moving me across the kitchen as though on wheels.

“What is it?” I say, rounding the stupid island, my hands finding her shoulders tense. “What’s going on?” What the fuck did I miss?

“Your mother sent me a gift.” She sniffs. “A care package, I guess you’d call it.” Her hand lifts as though by invisible puppet strings as she points to the couch.

“Right?” But this is far from right. It doesn’t make any sense. What the hell did she send?

“It arrived this morning. She included a tin of tea. Tea leaves. And I hate tea, by the way.”

“Then ... why are you always drinking the stuff?”

“And a tiny knitted cardigan she said she made herself. A matinee coat , she called it.”

“Yeah, she knits.” What the fuck did I say that for?

“It’s so beautiful.” Her eyes turn all watery.

“Okay.” Is the idea of family freaking her out?

“And there was a cake.”

“She likes to bake. And feed people.”

“And pictures of you and Letty and your brothers when you were all small. In green fields and gardens, all wrapped up in sweaters and scarves. And others where you’re all as brown as berries and on the beach.”

“We had a good childhood.” And I’m so sorry you didn’t get the same.

“She said they’d help me see family likenesses, when the time comes. Does Flip have your nose or Hugo’s? Does she have your cheekbones? My eyes? My father’s smile?”

Ah, fuck.

“Not that I’d know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say quickly as I rub her arms. “Doesn’t matter who he looks like. As long as he doesn’t look like Hugo,” I add flippantly. “Because that fucker got some nose on him.”

“Some of these things she sent she must’ve kept since your birth. Mementos she’s held on to for thirty-eight years.” She wipes the back of her hand under her nose. “Can you imagine that?”

“She’s got an attic full of memories, darlin’. She’s just that kind of person.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is loving . A perfect mom.”

“Ah, love. There isn’t any such thing.” I stroke my thumb across her cheek. “You’ll make mistakes—we both will. And Ma will be the first to tell you she has too.”

“Do you know what my mother gave me when I left?”

I give a quick shake of my head. Because I don’t think I want to know. As unfair as that seems.

“A good riddance . A fuck you . And in the place of a farewell, I got ‘I didn’t want you anyway.’ ”

“Ah, darlin’. I’m sorry.” The hurt in her eyes pulls at my insides, twisting them into knots.

Because what in the name of actual fuck?

She said she’d had a bad childhood, but this has narcissism written all over it.

What kind of ... well, those aren’t the words of anyone who deserves the title of mother .

But I get it—I think. Get why this is coming up now. My mother being her usual mothering self has dredged up a nasty piece of Ryan’s history—just like in the wine bar, when she broke the news of her pregnancy and assumed I’d walk away. Just as her own father did.

We got through that, so we can get through whatever fear has been dredged up this morning.

“Honestly?” I say, taking her sad but lovely face in my hands. “She sounds like a piece of work, and I’m glad she’s not around to hurt you anymore. You didn’t deserve that. Not as a kid. Not as a human.”

“I’m glad she’s dead too.” There’s a vehemence in her tone, an absolute sincerity on her face.

“Thanks for telling me, darlin’. Whatever you have to say, whatever you tell me. I promise to shoulder it.”

“Matt.” Her gaze slides away. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I’m here for it all. And I’m sorry if the stuff Ma sent is making you feel like this.” That it’s triggering somehow.

“It’s not the package,” she says kind of manically. “It’s this—this fuckup I’m responsible for.” Her fierce blue eyes fill with tears, her words turning wobbly as she tears away from me, putting the kitchen island between us like a barrier. “I can’t stay here with you.”

Concrete fills my guts, a cold, heavy sensation seeping through me. “What do you mean you can’t? I love you—we’re having a fuckin’ baby!”

“It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to the baby. I know I said I’d stay, but I think it’s better we do this now before things get too complicated.”

“Too complicated?” I almost bellow, the concrete falling away to leave cold, hard rage. “No.” Just ... fuck that. “You said you’d stay so I could be a part of this. You’re supposed to stay now because you want to be with me. Because we’re about to become a fucking family!”

Sunshine streams through the window, the summer day a stark contrast to the winter she’s created in my heart. Until I notice how frozen she is, framed by the window and a verdant garden backdrop. Ryan is a Madonna in stained glass, whose trauma responses deserve to be handled better.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. You’re just .

.. spooked.” Hyperindependence is a trauma response, right?

I’m sure I read that somewhere. And by God, she’s suffered some trauma.

A father who didn’t want to be part of her life.

A mother who didn’t deserve to be in it.

“I get it,” I begin, not sure where I’m going with this.

“We’re all products of our experiences. But you’re so strong.

You made a life for yourself, pushing through all that toxic family and career bullshit.

And then you met a man who you thought you could trust. Before he reminded you that the human race sucks.

” I want to take her in my arms and promise to take her pain away.

“You think you can’t rely on anyone, but you can, Ryan. You can rely on me.”

“Matt, please,” she says softly, her eyes begging me for something I won’t give.

“You can trust in me.” I want to go to her, but I don’t trust myself. Not as something seems to come over her. A calmness or detachment, maybe.

“I love you,” I say as a realization sets in. She hasn’t once in this exchange said the same. “Last night, you said you loved me.”

“That’s the problem with people like you,” she begins. “People who say what they mean. They think other people mean what they say too.”

“Bullshit.” My retort is a bullet I know she’ll dodge. Grief has seven stages, but I wonder how many stages trauma has. And what they are. Denial? Bargaining? Anger? Sounds right about where we are now. How many more stages before we reach healing?

“Mama might’ve been an evil whore, but she taught me some things.”

“Words of wisdom?” I say, folding my arms. Even my stance is combative.

“Sure.” She gives a spiky shrug. “The truth. You can’t trust what someone says on New Year’s Eve, on their deathbed, or when they’re fucking you.”

“And who was fucking who last night?” I demand as blood boils like lava in my veins. I don’t know what this is I’m feeling. Is it pity? Is it rage? Hurt. And pain. It feels like she’s punched her hand through my chest to twist my heart.

All these months I’ve trodden lightly, followed her cues, withstood her dismissals, and refused to shrink from her denials. But cruelty. What am I supposed to do with that?

“I think we were fucking each other,” she says, unconsciously reaching to protect her stomach. Our child.

“So that’s it?” I demand flatly. “I’m just supposed to let you walk away?”

“Yes.” A whisper. An almost imperceptible nod.

“And what about the baby? It wasn’t New Year’s, I wasn’t dying, and we weren’t fucking when you said I could be a part of his life.”

“I won’t take fatherhood from you.”

I shake my head. Disbelief. Distrust. My head is a mess, and this is just so fucked up.

Her gaze drops. “I’m sorry. But we were just a fantasy I lived for a little while.”