Page 18 of Beautiful When He Breaks

I rub my hand over my mouth. “So, she could come back.”

Killian’s jaw shifts. “That’s one of the things we’re preparing for.”

The coffee turns sour in my stomach.

Celeste coming back, crying, apologizing, and saying her parents made her do it, that she was scared, that I’m cruel if I keep her from her baby. Celeste turning the whole thing around until I’m the monster for being angry. The old reflex rises before I can stop it—the impulse to understand her, excuse her, make room for her version because that’s what I did for months. Every fight became my fault eventually. Every boundary became punishment. Every ‘no’ became proof I didn’t love her enough.

Then the baby makes a soft, sleepy sound, and the reflex dies so fast I almost feel it snap.

“No,” I say, and look at my daughter—maybe daughter, but fuck maybe right now—and my voice comes out rough. “If she’s mine, Celeste doesn’t get to just walk back in because she changed her mind. Not after leaving her outside in the cold. Not after that letter. Not after…” I stop because the rest is too big.

Not after maybe doing something to me.

Killian finishes the thought without forcing the words. “That’s why we document everything.”

I nod, but my hand shakes when I set the coffee back on the nightstand.

He leans forward slightly. “There’s another part.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Love another part.”

A faint, humorless smile touches his mouth. “If there’s a chance you were drugged or assaulted, that matters legally. It matters medically, too.”

Drugged.

Assaulted.

They sound too formal. Too clean. Too far away from waking up with my head full of cotton and Celeste smiling at me like I was being difficult for asking why I didn’t remember lying down. Too far away from the feeling that something happened in a room while I was trapped under sleep.

I swallow hard. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Anger sparks because it’s easier than fear. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Killian raises an eyebrow at me. “It means you keep acting like if you ignore it long enough, this part won’t exist.”

My mouth opens, then shuts again. Fuck him for being right.

He watches me without flinching. He’s never flinched from anyone’s mess. Maybe that’s why people orbit him the way they do. Not because he’s warm; he isn’t, not in the obvious way. He sees the shape of disaster and starts building shelter before everyone else realizes the roof is gone.

I drag a hand through my hair, tugging until my scalp hurts. “I can’t think about it and look at her at the same time.”

His gaze flicks to the bassinet. “Then don’t. Not all at once.”

I laugh once, bitter and low. “That your brotherly advice? Compartmentalize my possible rape and take up journaling?”

His expression doesn’t change. “My brotherly advice is to stop trying to be noble about shit that requires strategy.”

That shuts me up again.

“You have three fronts,” he says. “The baby’s immediate care. Legal custody and paternity. Your family and Celeste’s family.”

My chest tightens at the mention of my parents. “My parents are gonna be a fucking nightmare.”

“I know.”

“You don’t, actually.”