Page 42 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane (Rise of the Resistance #2)
DELILAH
E xhaling a cloud of frustration, I lean against the cool kitchen counter, my fingers absentmindedly tracing the marble veins. A grimace twisted my lips as I grasped at the remnants of calm that had been lounging in my mind just moments ago. The flowers from Talia seem to mock me as I try to work up the courage to do what I must.
This is harder than I thought it would be.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, the weight of impending conversations pressing down like an anvil. My family, bless their unconventional hearts, had taken the news with laughter and gentle ribbing.
“You’re sure Taurus is the dad? He’s stubborn, but I didn’t think he was potent enough to make a miracle,” my chef joked, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile at the memory, one that dissipated as swiftly as it came. They could jest about astrological compatibility and potential supernatural babysitters because their love was unconditional. A safe harbor in the tempest of my unconventional life.
But beyond the sanctuary of my housemates, acceptance will not come so easily. The thought of explaining the situation to the others churns my insides. They were all a part of my heart at one time, but everything has changed. The mere idea of sharing this news feels like navigating a minefield blindfolded.
Each rehearsal plays out in my head, every scenario another shade of disaster. Will they see it as a betrayal? A change too far from our dynamic equilibrium? Their faces float through my mind, each one etching a line of worry deeper into my brow.
“Maybe they’ll surprise you,” I whispered to my reflection in the stainless steel fridge, though even my own voice lacked conviction. I was no stranger to complicated relationships or the delicate dance of polyamory, but this—this was different. This was a life, a responsibility that transcended romantic entanglements and late-night whispers.
With a final, resigned sigh, I pushed away from the counter. My buzz of carefree joy was thoroughly harshed, replaced by the sobering reality of what lay ahead. It was time to face the music, one difficult conversation at a time.
The doorbell chimes its melodic tune, a stark contrast to the cacophony of nerves clanging in my chest. I tapped a rhythmless beat on my thigh as the door swung open, revealing Wilde’s trademark smirk and Sari’s kaleidoscope eyes.
“Surprise!” they chorus, an excess of enthusiasm that doesn’t quite reach their eyes. Wilde sweeps me into a hug that feels more like a performance than comfort, while Sari’s gaze flits past me, as if searching for clues or plotting her next move.
“Okay, spill it,” Wilde says, releasing me with a flourish. “You look like you’ve been wrestling with your own shadow.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. Their feigned ignorance is almost convincing, but the tension in Sari’s shoulders betrays her. “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, bracing for the storm.
For a moment, there’s only silence—then the room erupts with their exaggerated congratulations. Wilde claps his hands together, laughing too loud, too hard. Sari twirls around, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes in a hurricane.
“Marvelous news! Isn’t it, darling?” Wilde said, turning to Sari, who nods vigorously, her smile as sharp as a blade.
My heart sinks. These are not the genuine reactions of mates sharing in joy; these are performances by actors who already rehearsed their roles. Behind their theatrical display, I can’t shake the memory of Sari’s cryptic words after Beltane. She spoke of a coyote journey—some sort of soul quest that Wilde expressed an interest in. The details elude me, but the secrecy surrounding it sent shivers down my spine.
They’re pretending so I don’t question their loyalty.
“Speaking of journeys,” I venture, trying to sound casual. “I heard something about a trip you two are planning?”
Wilde’s eyes flicker, revealing a momentary crack in his facade. “Ah, yes, an adventure for the spirit, you could say. But let’s focus on you right now.”
“Right,” I press on, fueled by unease. “But how the hell are you going anywhere when you’re supposedly courting Talia and Amanda? Isn’t your damned schedule full?” My tone might be sharper than intended, but the question has gnawed at me since Talia’s visit.
“As you well know,” Sari interjects with a sly grin, “we’re masters at multitasking. Our hearts are big enough for many, and our souls yearn for enlightenment.” Her words dance around the truth, leaving me no wiser than before.
T ypical Sari bullshit; that’s what it is.
As they continue to shower me with overzealous merriment, I know one thing for certain: beneath their jubilant charade, a storm is brewing—one that could very well sweep us all away.
Leaning back against the cool brick wall of the Maison, I exhale a heavy breath that fogs in the crisp night air. My thoughts drift to Constantine and Shea, who have been shadows at the edges of my life lately—ghosts whose absences are as palpable as their presences once were.
It’s almost been a relief, given everything.
A distant part of me—a fiercely independent streak that has weathered storms before—relishes the idea of space. The room to navigate this news on my own terms. I’ve made my choices; they will make theirs. With distance already between us, perhaps the blow will be softened. Maybe the lack of their daily interference is a blessing in disguise, allowing them to process the shock with less...explosivity.
The small smile finds its way to my lips as I consider the irony; here I am, destined to be overjoyed with maternity bliss, yet I’m strategizing defense mechanisms against unwanted advances. The idea of shopping for onesies and picking out pastel paint swatches for a nursery seems a universe away when juxtaposed with the task of deflecting groping hands. Taurus’s child deserves better than that; they deserve a mother unencumbered by those complexities.
“Constantine and Shea,” I whisper to the empty street, the names tasting like resolve on my tongue. “They will have to deal with it. This is my decision, my body.” There is strength in articulating the words, even if only to the night’s embrace.
Can I say that to their faces? Should I?
“Can I actually say that out loud?” I mutter, questioning my own audacity. The night offers no reply, but the lingering echo of my voice in the quiet alley bolsters my resolve. Yes, I can—and I will.
With the right timing and the right words, the truth will have to suffice.
It will have to be enough for all of them.