“Pregnancy?” I feel like he’s speaking a foreign language. “What are you talking about?”

Goldberg sighs, looking tired. “Nora is six weeks pregnant, Julian. It looks like the morning-after pill didn’t work.”

I stare at him, stunned, and he says, “Listen, I know it’s a lot to take in. Why don’t I leave the two of you to discuss this, and I’ll answer any questions you might have in the morning? For now, the best thing for Nora would be to get some rest. Stress is not good in her condition.”

I nod, still mute with shock, and he swiftly departs, leaving me alone with Nora.

Nora, who’s sitting there like a wax doll, her face nearly as white as the robe she’s wearing.

Hot liquid spills over my hand, burning me, and I realize that I forgot about the tray I’m holding. The pain clears my mind, and I finally process the meaning of Goldberg’s words.

Nora is pregnant.

Not sick. Pregnant.

The icy fear eases, replaced by a new, entirely foreign emotion.

Placing the tray with the half-full cup of tea on the nightstand, I sit down next to my wife and wrap my hands around her small palms. “Nora.” I pull on her hands to get her to face me, and see that she’s still shellshocked, her gaze blank and distant. “Nora, baby, talk to me.”

She blinks, as if coming back to herself, and her hands jerk in my grasp. I release her and watch as she scoots back, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around herself. Her eyes lock with mine, and we stare at each other in silence as seconds tick by.

“Did you do this?” she finally asks, her voice a strained whisper. “Did you ask Dr. Goldberg to give me a placebo instead of the morning-after pill? Is the new implant in my arm a fake?”

“No.” I don’t bother being outraged at her accusation. If I’d wanted her pregnant, I might’ve considered doing something along those lines, and Nora is smart enough to know that. “No, my pet. This is as much of a shock to me as it is to you.”

She nods, and I know she believes me. There is no reason for me to lie. She’s mine to do with as I please. If I had impregnated her on purpose, I wouldn’t deny it.

“Come here,” I murmur, reaching for her. She’s stiff as I pull her closer, but I ignore her resistance. I need to hold her, to feel her in my arms. Her hair tickles my chin as I pull her onto my lap and inhale deeply, closing my eyes.

Nora is not sick.

She’s carrying my baby.

It seems surreal, unnatural. She’s tiny in my embrace, barely bigger than a child herself. Yet she’s going to be a mother—and I’m going to be a father.

A father, like the man who gave me life and molded me into what I am today.

Unbidden, an old memory comes to me.

“Catch!” He throws the ball at me, laughing. I jump for it, and my five-year-old hands close around it, snatching it from mid-air.

“I got it!” I feel so proud of myself, so full of joy. “Father, I caught it on the first try!”

“Good job, son.” He grins at me, and in that moment, I love him. His approval matters to me more than anything else in the world. I forget about the frequent bite of his belt, about all the times he yelled at me and called me worthless.

He’s my father, and in that moment, I love him.

My eyes fly open, and I stare blankly at the wall, still holding Nora. I can’t believe I ever loved that man. He’s been the subject of my hatred for so long, I’d forgotten there were those kinds of moments.

I’d forgotten there were times he made me happy.

Would I make my child happy? Or would he or she hate me? I told Nora I would make an awful father, but I have no idea if that’s the truth. For the first time, I try to imagine myself holding a newborn baby, playing with a chubby-cheeked toddler, teaching a five-year-old how to swim . . . The pictures come to me with surprising ease, filling me with an unsettling mixture of fear and longing.

With a desire for something I’ve never known.

A stifled sob startles me, and I realize that it’s Nora.

She’s crying, her slim body shaking in my arms. I can feel the wetness from her tears on my neck, and it burns me like acid.

For a moment, I had forgotten how much she doesn’t want this child.

How much she doesn’t want a child with me.

“Hush, my pet.” The words come out harsher than I intended, but I can’t help it. The unpleasant tightness in my chest is back, and with it, the irrational urge to hurt her. Fighting it, I say in a softer tone, “This is not the end of the world, believe me.”

She stills, falling silent for a moment, but then another sob racks her body. And another.

I can’t take it anymore. Her misery is like a hot knife plunging into my side—agonizing and maddening at the same time.

Thrusting my hand into her hair, I close my fist around the silky strands and pull her head back, forcing her to look up at me. Her eyes, wide and shocked, meet mine. I can see the tears sparkling on her lashes, and the sight enrages me further, awakening the beast inside.

Her lips tremble, parting as if she would speak, but I lower my head, swallowing her words with a deep, hard kiss. Lust, sharp and strong, kindles in my veins, hardening my cock and clouding my brain. I want her, and I want to punish her at the same time. I can feel her struggling against me, taste the salt from her tears, and it spurs me on, heightening the twisted hunger.

I’m not sure how we end up on the bed, with her stretched helplessly beneath me, but the clothes we’re wearing seem like an intolerable barrier, so I tear them off, feeling more animal than man. My fingers close around her wrists, transferring both of them into my left hand, and my knees push between her thighs, parting them roughly.