Page 48 of Omega's Faith

"How do you think babies are made, Alex? Because that’s what we’ve been doing for three days."

He’s not wrong. I can’t argue there. Not without making myself look like even more of an idiot and I’m reaching champion levels of idiocy right now. I reach for the only real argument I have. “I’d make a terrible father. You have to agree with that.”

We stare at each other. I don’t know that to say. I don’t want kids. I’ve never wanted kids. Someone as spoilt and fucked up as me shouldn’t procreate. That’s just basic common sense.

"If I am pregnant," Jonah says quietly, "what then?"

The question hangs in the air. I can feel my alpha instincts stirring, possessive and protective at the thought of him carrying my child. It does something to me, something primal and overwhelming. But it's tangled up with fear and resistance and the bone-deep knowledge that I would be terrible at this.

My parents are dead. I barely remember what a functional family looks like. How am I supposed to be a father when I can’t even manage being a husband?

"I don't know," I admit.

He laughs. "Of course you don't. You haven't thought about any of this, have you? The marriage, the future—it's all just another mess for Ricky to clean up."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" He pulls off the apron, tossing it onto the counterwith more force than necessary. "Tell me, Alex, what exactly did you think would happen? We'd stay married but live separate lives? What was your plan?"

Each option sounds worse when he says it out loud. The truth is, I didn't have a plan beyond surviving Diana's ultimatum and keeping my inheritance.

"I thought we'd have time," I say finally. "And if I’m honest, yes. I thought the most likely outcome was divorce once we’d fulfilled our obligations to the Bureau. We’re not exactly compatible."

An expression of shock crosses his face, as devastating as if I’d suddenly punched him. He swallows.

"I don’t... I don’t believe in divorce. Marriage is sacred." He wraps his arms around himself, and for the first time since I met him, he looks small. Young. Vulnerable.

"Jonah—"

"Don't." He holds up a hand. "Just... don't. I need to think."

He turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. "I’m not completely naive. I know that there are ways you can divorce me if you want to but this isn’t right. Marriage should mean something.”

He looks so absolutely miserable that I can’t stand it. I’m across the room in a second. I try to pull him in for a hug but he shoves me away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

I step back and that’s when we both scent the burning. Whatever he has in the oven is starting to smoke. He shoves past me and grabs the oven mitts, opening the door to pull out something that might be cinnamon rolls. He looks like he’s about to cry.

“Jonah--”

“Leave me alone.”

I stand there, not sure what to do.

“Leave me alone!”

I do. I turn my back and leave him to his food mountain. As I climb the stairs to my study, I can smell his distress seeping through the walls. I want to go to him, comfort and soothe and fix this. I can’t.

I close my study door and pour myself three fingers of whiskey, breakfast of champions. The burn helps, a little. Makes it easier to ignore the voice in my head asking what the hell I think I'm doing.

Making a mess, as usual. It's what I do best.

12. Jonah

The cast iron skillet hits the water with enough force to send soap suds flying.

I don't care. I scrub at the already-clean surface like it personally offended me, channeling all my fury into the bristles of the brush. The remains of our breakfast—hisbreakfast, since I lost my appetite the moment he opened his mouth—have already been scraped away, but I keep scrubbing anyway.

His words echo in my head, each repetition making my chest tighten further. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let three days of heat-driven sex convince me that maybe, just maybe, we could make this work?