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“I’m pregnant.”
The silence that followed your declaration was nerve wracking, and you drummed your fingers against the dashboard of Simon’s car. You’d been coming back to the pub you met him at for three weeks straight since that damn test had turned up positive, wanting—no, needing —to at least tell the man who’d knocked you up about his baby growing inside you. You didn’t expect anything from him, not really. He was a stranger, a ruggedly attractive man you’d gone home with after one too many drinks. Not that you’d regretted hooking up with him, he was as good in bed as he was hot—or at least you hadn’t until you’d missed your period.
You’d nearly given up on meeting him again when you walked into the pub today and saw him in the same corner booth he’d sat in last time, nursing a pint. He hadn’t smiled when he’d seen you, but his eyes had locked onto you and not strayed as you strode towards him, nervous but determined. When you’d asked to speak to him in private, he’d raised a single brow, letting the silence stretch on for so long you were sure he’d say no. But then he’d just gotten up and walked towards the door, holding it open for you and clicking his tongue when he turned around to see you frozen in place. Like a misbehaving child being scolded, you’d scrambled towards him, whispering a stuttered thanks and then following him to his car, cheeks hot.
The car in which you now sat, still stifled by silence as Simon just stared at you, face blank and giving nothing away. You swallowed thickly, a shaking hand pressing against your belly, a habit you’d unconsciously picked up over the last few weeks. Simon’s dark, penetrating eyes tracked the movement, lingering for a long moment before he suddenly reached over you, ignoring your surprised flinch to grab your seat belt and buckle you in. Before you could ask what he was doing, he’d thrown the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot, making you grip the handle above you for dear life.
“S-Simon, what– what are you doing?” You asked, doing your best to keep the tremor out of your voice. Simon just grunted. “We have– we have to talk about our options–”
“What options?” He asked, voice flat and deadly. “Ring options? Mortgage options? Paint swatches f’the nursery?”
You shut up, tears stinging your eyes at his mocking. You weren’t going to ask him for any of that, but it still hurt to hear him be so cruel. You turned away to look out the window, the light from the streetlamps the only thing penetrating the inky darkness of the night. Shadows crawled out from the forest, making a shiver run down your spine.
“Just take me home,” you whispered, dejected. “Please…”
“I am,” Simon answered, still in that same emotionless tone.
You didn’t know if you believed him.
Your gut feeling was proven right when he parked the car in an abandoned lot, wooded and secluded and a perfect place to murder the mother of his unwanted child before disposing of your body. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat as he climbed out of the car and walked around to your side, opening the door and holding out his hand for you. You stared at him, eyes wide, frozen like a deer in the headlights. He huffed in what could have been amusement but was probably annoyance, reaching over you once again to unbuckle you before scooping you up and carrying you deeper into the lot.
“See that tree?” He asked, nodding towards a sturdy looking oak. “That one branch stickin’ out’d make a good place ta hang something from.”
Oh my God, you thought, feeling dizzy and nauseous. Is he going to hang me and make it look like a suicide?
“There’s a pond down there,” he continued, and to your minor relief, walked right past the tree. When you reached the pond a minute later, he finally set you back on your feet. “S’dangerous. Fully grown man could drown in it.”
You flinched, your breathing picking up. He’s going to drown me instead. Simon turned to look back up the hill he’d just carried you down, his back facing you. It was now or never. If you wanted to live, you needed to run.
“Gonna have to build a fence ‘round it. Not too high though, don’t want ta mess up the view from the house—”
You didn’t hear the rest of what he was saying, already halfway up the hill by the time he cut himself off. A gruff, angry “ hey!” had you moving double time, nearly clawing at the ground just to get to the top faster.
You didn’t make it.
Strong, thick arms wrapped around your middle and lifted you in the air, and you screamed, shrill and terrified.
“No! No! Let me go!” You begged as you flailed in Simon’s firm grip. It was useless—he was so much stronger than you, so much larger than you, and his hold on you was unbreakable. He didn’t say anything as he carried you back down the hill, towards the pond, towards your death, and your shrieks turned into sobs as big, fat tears rolled down your cheeks. You were hyperventilating, now, animal panic wrapping its hands around your throat and squeezing, cutting off your air. Or maybe those were Simon’s hands? You didn’t know, you couldn’t think straight through the fear. All you knew was that you didn’t want to die.
“Thinkin’ we could name the baby John, if it’s a boy.”
The words filtered through your panic after an indeterminate amount of time, and you slowly came back to yourself, the blackness leaving your vision. The first thing you noticed was that you were cradled in Simon’s lap, face tucked into the crook of his neck as he murmured softly in your ear. The next thing you noticed was that one of his hands was rubbing your back soothingly, while the other rested on your belly. You let out a confused, snotty croak, and his voice quieted, before he pulled back a bit to look down at you.
“You back with us, love?” He asked, but then gently shushed you when you whined. “Shh, s’alright. Try not ta get all worked up again, hmm? S’not good f’the baby.”
“But— but— but you don’t want it,” you whispered. Simon blinked at you, the slightest of furrows appearing between his brows. “You’re g-gonna kill me…”
“Am I now?” He tsked. “That’s not very nice o’ me.”
You whimpered, squirming in his lap and trying to get free. His face softened minutely, and he started rubbing your back again, still not letting go.
“Shh, shh,” he repeated. “S’alright, love. M’not gonna hurt ya. Was just makin’ a shite joke, yeah?”
It took another few minutes of you struggling (and failing) to escape, and him cooing gruff reassurances at you, before you gave up.
“You’re not gonna kill me?” You finally sniffled, scrubbing at your wet, red-rimmed eyes. Simon’s lips twitched into an almost-smile, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You relaxed, practically melting into him as your heart rate started to slow. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe Simon really wasn’t dangerous.
“I’d eat my gun ‘fore I hurt ya or our baby,” he vowed.
You stiffened again.
“You have a gun?!”