Now they’re both staring at me like I’m an actual alien, and the thing is, I understand why. I’m not being rational this morning. These are the ramblings of a crazy woman.
Just like your mother, says a nasty voice in my head. Augustine would never…
God, where did that come from? I bolt out of the chair and storm from the room, tears hot at the corner of my eyes. Just before I get out of earshot, I hear Tristian come in from the kitchen to bark, “What the fuck did you Neanderthals do?”
I go up to the bedroom and yank open a dresser drawer, looking for a shirt that actually fits, but it takes a while, since my vision is completely distorted from the tears. It looks like I’m doing this—crying at eight in the morning, for no good reason—so I accept defeat. I go ahead and free the clench of sobs in my chest. It feels good. Cathartic. Like an emotional bloodletting. When the pressure has released, I pull in a noisy sniffle and find one of Tristian’s workout shirts in my drawer. That’s sure to fit. His laundry never gets ruined.
I’m just pulling the tight shirt off when Tristian appears in the doorway, face etched into a frown. “I don’t know what those assholes said to you, but don’t let it ruin breakfast. I made these incredible pancakes—they taste like real wheat.”
My stomach lurches and I freeze, swallowing down bile in the back of my throat. “No, thanks.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, approaching me much like Jack Hanna approaches a pack of hyenas. Slow and cautious. “What’s going on? You’ve been crying.”
I shake my head as another tear tracks down my cheek. “I’m just having a shitty day. My shirts have all shrunk, and Ms. Crane is out there all alone, and Augustine wants to fuck my boyfriend, and—” And gluten-free pancakes that taste like wheat are disgusting.
Tristian places his hands on my shoulders. “Story, look at me. We can buy you new shirts. Ms. Crane is never alone. And Augustine has her own boyfriend now. Her run at Rath is ancient history. Not like she’d ever make a move on a Queen’s man, anyway.” His eyes drop to my tits, and I try not to hold it against him. I know better than to attempt a serious conversation in this house while I’m shirtless. “Hey, wait,” he says, taking in my half-bare torso. “It’s the sixteenth, isn’t it?”
I groan, knowing he was going to bring this up. “Yes, okay? I’m obviously PMSing! Sorry if that throws a wrench in your weekend plans, but…”
My words cut off when he abruptly grabs my breasts.
It’s not really a grab, since it’s gentle and testing, but he cups his palms around them, engulfing them, weighing them. His face is pulled into a calculating expression.
I squirm away. “Tristian, I don’t have time for your kinky shit today.”
“Just… wait. Hold on.” He keeps touching them, and when Killian and Dimitri appear in the doorway, he throws them a quick look. “Come feel these.”
I bat his hands away, wrestling my shirt up my arms. “You’ve lost your mind!”
“I have not,” he demands, gesturing to the tits I’m stuffing into his workout shirt. “I know your tits, Story. I know the size, shape, circumference, weight. They’re absolute perfection. Your shirts didn’t shrink. Your tits are bigger.”
I give him a wry look. “Yeah, right.”
“Seriously!” he insists, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me toward the mirror on the dresser. “Look at them! They’re bigger.” At my skeptical expression, he raises an eyebrow. “If one of our dicks grew an inch, would you notice?”
Huh.
Well, when he puts it like that…
“Why would my tits grow?” I argue, pulling at my top. “I’m twenty three. I think I’m done outgrowing bras.”
He makes a sharp sound, like he’s willing me to catch onto something only he can see. “It’s the sixteenth.” He punctuates this with a thump on the dresser. “Your period is over a week late.”
Everything slows down. Murky. Thick. Indistinct. I struggle to wade through it, to find my way to reason, because there’s no way.
There is no goddamn way.
Dimitri rolls his eyes. “This is dumb.”
“It’s not dumb,” Tristian bites back. “You’re just in denial.”
“You can’t tell she’s pregnant just by feeling her up, Tris. Jesus, look at her.” Dimitri lifts a hand, indicating my general demeanor. “You’re freaking her out.”