Evie's Bombshell - By Amy Andrews Page 0,48

‘That you had to go through all that. That your brother was taken from you.’

He opened his mouth to tell her it was a long time ago but it felt as raw right now as it had back then. ‘There wasn’t anything I could do,’ he murmured.

Evie squeezed the tears from her eyes. She’d expected him to say nothing, to clam up. The anguish in his voice was unbearable. She kissed his back. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I know.’

And then she circled back to his front and kissed him with every ounce of passion and compassion she’d ever owned. And then they were on the bed, stroking each other, caressing, kissing and teasing as if they were getting acquainted all over again.

And when they could take it no more Finn looked down at Evie, stroked her belly and said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you …’

And she hushed him, rolling up on top of him and Finn had never seen anything more beautiful than Evie pregnant with his child, her hair loose, her full breasts bouncing, her belly proud as they moved in a rhythm that was slow and languorous and built to a crescendo that was so sweet Finn knew the sight of Evie flying on the crest of her orgasm would be forever burned into his retinas.

She collapsed on top of him, spent, and he didn’t know how long they lay there but at some stage she shifted and he pulled her close, fitting her back against his chest, curling around her, his hand on her belly, kissing her neck, all to the hum of a phenomenal post-coital buzz.

And then he felt the baby move.

And the buzz evaporated.

He waited for something. A bolt of lightning or a beam of light, a trill of excitement—but he got nothing. Life, his own DNA, moved and shifted and grew right under his hand and he felt … nothing.

Panic rose in him. Shouldn’t he feel something?

Other than protective? And an overwhelming urge to provide?

Shouldn’t he feel love?

Evie, oftentimes oblivious to the baby’s movements due to their frequency and this time due to a heavy sexual fog, only became aware of them as she felt Finn tensing around her. She felt him about to withdraw and clamped his hand against her.

‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just the baby moving.’

But it wasn’t okay and Finn pulled his hand away, eased back from her, rolled up, sat on the side of the bed, cradling his head in his hands.

Evie turned to look at his back, the scars affecting her as deeply as they had just moments ago. She scooted over to where he sat. Her fingers automatically soothed the raised marks and he flinched but didn’t pull away, and she kissed each one again as she had earlier. ‘What is it Finn? What are you worried about?’

Finn shut his eyes. He wanted to push her away but her gentleness was his undoing. ‘Something died in me the day I got these scars, Evie. The day Isaac died. I don’t think I’m capable of love.’

He heard her start to protest and forced himself to open his eyes, forced his legs to work as he broke away to stand and look down at her, gloriously naked, her belly full of his baby.

‘I’m worried I’m not going to love him.’

Evie smiled at him gently. ‘Of course you will. That’s what parents do.’

Finn shook his head and the sadness in his eyes cut her even deeper than his scars had.

‘Not all of them, Evie.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

EVIE DRAGGED HERSELF through the next few days. She hadn’t seen Finn since he’d picked up his clothes and left the other night and there was a small part of her that was beginning to despair that she might never be able to reach him.

But after three punishing day shifts in a row she was too exhausted to care when she crawled into bed at eight-thirty and turned off the bedside lamp. Her feet ached, her back ached and she wanted to shut her eyes and sleep for a week.

She’d worry about Finn tomorrow.

Except that wasn’t to be.

Evie woke from a deep, dark sleep with a start several hours later, a feeling of dread pushing against her chest. Her heart was racing. Something was wrong but for a moment she couldn’t figure out what.

As she lay in the dark, the luminous figures on the clock telling her it was two-thirteen a.m., she slowly became aware of a feeling of wetness. She reached down, her hand