Page 32 of Shadow’s Protection (Hurricane Heat MC #1)

Violet

Shadow is the vomit whisperer. As disgusting as it is, my morning sickness has dropped to really manageable levels by the end of the third day.

I tried to convince Shadow that he didn’t have to stay and nurse me back to health, but he insisted.

And since I wasn’t ready to tell him that the condition I have won’t go away in just a couple of days, it seemed easier to accept his help. God knows my body has needed it.

Shadow isn’t a bad cook for a guy who can’t cook. He’s made me soup, rice, plain noodles, crackers, and fruit, which I guess isn’t cooking, but it’s the closest he’s come, so I’m saying it counts. And if I didn’t have to prepare it, it sure feels like being cooked for.

Since Shadow came on the day my doctor confirmed the pregnancy, I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it—not my sister or my parents. And, of course, not Shadow.

Since I’m new at my job, I’ve been working during the day, taking breaks to get sick or shower.

And then at night, we cuddle in bed and watch movies.

It’s shocking to me how comfortable it is just being with Shadow.

He’s a human body pillow I wrap myself around every night.

We haven’t had sex or even kissed—maybe because he’s not sure that I don’t have some kind of flu or bug.

And I have been puking every chance I get, so I can’t say I expect him to pounce on me like he did during the storm.

But a few days without any sex has given us something I wasn’t sure we’d ever have—a relationship.

We can talk about anything—well, except the baby I’m carrying.

We’ve talked about politics, religion, our families.

It’s amazing how much time is freed up to understand each other when we’re not banging our brains out.

I miss that, of course, but it’s hard to imagine moving around that much.

Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn.

Today was a fairly stressful day at my job. Shadow washed the sheets and bedding while I took two video calls. I had to go off-camera once to heave into a trash bin, but then I made it through the second meeting relatively unscathed.

So unscathed, in fact, I get a little overconfident. When Shadow tells me he is going to order burgers for dinner, I ask him to get me one.

“You sure about that?” He eyes me suspiciously. “You looked green after plain dry toast at lunch. You’re ready to go in for a burger?”

“Plain,” I tell him. “No fries, nothing on it. I think some protein could do me good.”

Shadow has been adding chicken to my soups, but just the idea of a burger makes my mouth water.

“I can handle it,” I assure him.

When the burgers arrive, I find out way too soon that I cannot, in fact, handle it.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” I cover my mouth with my hand and turn to run for the bathroom.

Shadow follows close behind, stopping me with a hand on my shoulder. “Sweetheart, stop.” His voice is raw with compassion, and the ache in his tone brings a tear to my eyes. He’s so caring and considerate.

“You don’t have to—” I huff, feeling a wave of sour bile rise in my throat. The tears flow then. “I’m so sick of being sick,” I tell him. I don’t care if I cry and get snot on his shoulder. I don’t want to go through this alone. I want to lean on him.

And he absolutely lets me. He picks me up and carries me into the bathroom, setting me down on the edge of the bathtub.

I get sick—there’s no stopping it at this point—but now I’m crying, too.

Shadow stays with me, holds my hair back, and flushes the toilet for me when there’s nothing left I can lose.

I wipe my nose and shiver. “I feel so gross. Throwing up is literally torture. I feel just yucky.” I start brushing my teeth.

“Come on.” He turns on the bathwater and pours in a splash of bubble bath from a bottle I keep on the shelf. While the tub fills, he strips off my clothes, gently kissing my hands and shoulders, neck and head.

When I’m naked, I step carefully into the bath, him holding my hand every second. “Shadow, your burger’s going to be ice-cold. Go eat.”

To my surprise, he pulls off his shirt and unzips his jeans.

God, I’ve missed his body. He looks exactly the way I remember him—his arms thick, muscular, and dusted with dark brown hair.

His Shadow King tattoo, his dense thighs, stubbled neck.

He is beautiful. Perfect. A man of so many contradictions.

I peek at his piercing, smiling a little bit and giving it a wave.

“Missed you, little guy,” I say. Then I look up at Shadow, who climbs in behind me. “Do you have a nickname for your piercing? Do you call it, like, little Shadow or Mini-Me or something?”

He arches one dark brow at me. “No.”

Once he’s in the tub, I settle between his legs and lay my head back against his chest. “You have given up three days to take care of me. It’s starting to become a pattern.”

He cups warm water in his hands and pours it over the back of my hair, then uses his wet hands to massage my shoulders and the back of my neck. “A habit,” he says quietly. “You’re becoming a habit I don’t think I can kick.”

His words gut me.

“Shadow, you don’t strike me as the relationship type,” I say.

He stiffens, and his hands still on my shoulders. But then he keeps kneading, moving his warm, rough palms over my tight, tense muscles. “Never have been before. You’re right about that.”

“Would I be any different?” I ask. “Would you want a relationship with someone like me?”

“Not someone like you,” he says. “You. Only you.”

“I didn’t think you wanted that when I left after the storm,” I say, admitting the truth. “I wanted that, though. I wanted you.”

He’s quiet, and he stops stroking my hair, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight to his chest. “I didn’t know what to say. I thought I made my feelings clear. Maybe I needed more time to get clarity on what I felt for myself.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Still figuring that part out, sweetheart.”

The answer is simple, but it feels honest. I can’t help but ask him about his family, tiptoeing close to the idea of our family without giving too much away.

“Shadow, do you have any grandparents?” I ask. “Did you ever have a close relationship with them?”

We’ve talked a bit about our families, but not grandparents.

He sighs. “Tried to. Gramps on my dad’s side was a real bastard.

It’s a miracle my pop wasn’t a total son of a bitch.

And Gram, well, she was more of the sending cards for special occasion type of lady.

That’s my dad’s parents. My mom’s mother—Grandma Betty—was a living, breathing saint.

I loved that woman, and she worshipped me. Sewed all my clothes growing up.”

I remember that now. Shadow’s father died when he was only ten. His mom was a teen mom, so she was only twenty-five when she became a widow and a single mother. His grandmother passed two years ago.

“Been thinking about reaching out to my ma,” he says softly. “She never really got over my going to prison. Can’t say I blame her. I haven’t exactly been the angelic little boy she wanted.”

“Where does your mother live?” I ask, savoring the stillness in my body. Something about the water and Shadow’s heat have me relaxed and easy. I feel good—if I can tempt fate by using that word.

“She’s local,” he says, a slight Florida twang in his voice.

I smile at it. Ever since going away to college in the Midwest, I’ve loved the Florida accent. It’s subtle and only comes out in certain vowels, but it always sounds like home.

“Wow, Shadow,” I say. “So, you haven’t spoken with your mother in how long?”

His arms go slack around me, and I feel like he might get up and out of the tub. Did I push too far? I must not have, because he settles back against the porcelain, which is doing a heroic job holding the weight of both of us. He sighs, though, a long, ragged sound that breaks my heart into pieces.

“I try to be a good son,” he says defensively, almost like he’s arguing with himself.

“I send her cards and flowers. I…” He hesitates as if he’s not sure he wants to share this next thing.

I run my fingers along the tops of his immersed thighs, trying to quietly reassure him that I want to know this about him.

I want him to tell me. “I pay for a grocery service that brings her food every month.”

“Is your mom alone?” I ask.

“Nah. Mom is married to a really decent guy. Straight arrow. He treats her well, holds down a good job. They’ve got a little place not far from here.”

I’m confused. “If your mom is married and doing okay, why do you buy her groceries?”

He sniffs and runs a wet hand through my hair.

“I don’t know. I don’t need to. It’s just something I do.

It started a few years back, before she met Gary.

Ma was texting all the time, inviting me to dinner.

I was working on some shit for the club and just never got around to going over.

Ma said something once about buying all the stuff I love to make a homemade meal for me, and it fucking gutted me, like she was putting in all this effort every week to have stuff on hand just in case I made it.

And I never did. So, I started buying groceries for her.

I didn’t want to feel like she was wasting her time and money on me. ”

I twist a bit, the wet ends of my hair covered in bubbles, and try to look up at him. He looks wrecked. He’s a smart man. He knows he could make one meal a month with his mother. He could, couldn’t he? The club can’t have him so busy that he has no time for his mother, can it?

I cup his bearded cheek with a sad smile, then turn away, resting my back against his chest and closing my eyes. That just proves my point. How can a man who can’t even make time for his mother be a father? This could never work. He would never, ever be able to do this.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with this information.