Penance (Devout Trilogy #3) - Lesli Richardson Page 0,7

kids, too, but not because he’s interested in grandchildren.

He’s the last of his family, the only child, and wants me to multiply so his “legacy” can live on.

Legacy? Is he fucking crazy?

Yeah, like I want to reproduce that evil bastard’s DNA.

Hard pass.

Outside, I hear a rumble of thunder from a line of approaching storms. Greeaaat. I wanted to skip church and the lunch today, but Olivia insisted despite the shitty incoming weather.

God, do me a favor, and strike this church with lightning, please? Or a tornado. I’m not picky. Thanks.

Becca, one of her older sisters, walks up to us after the service. Because we drive from so far away, sometimes, we get stuck in traffic and can’t sit with the rest of her family.

Oh, darn.

Did you hear the sarcasm?

Becca’s five months pregnant with like her fifth kid or something. I’ve lost track. I’m sorry, but when I have to take off my socks and shoes to count nieces and nephews because I’ve run out of fingers, you’re on your own.

“We gonna see y’all at lunch, right?” Becca asks Olivia, eyeing me.

I nod and feign smiling. “Sure will.” Becca never has been fond of me.

The feeling’s mutual.

“Oh, good.” She hugs Olivia and waddles off to another sister.

Olivia grabs my arm, like she’s holding on to me, but she pinches the inside of it, forcing me to mask my wince. But she’s not nearly as big a sadist as Liam was.

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” I snark. “It’s not my fault they hate me for you not being knocked up thirteen months out of every year. Unless you’d rather change that?”

She glares at me, but the comment shuts her up every time.

* * * *

Fortunately, we make it out of church between rainstorms arrive at my in-laws before the next line rolls in.

Unfortunately, today we’re stuck sitting at the end of the table near her parents. They actually have several folding tables that get brought out and shoved together for these family dinners because there’s literally thirty or so people here, if you count all the kids running around.

We almost make it through lunch when the youngest Smith sibling, Carl, who’s fifteen months younger than Olivia, opens his smart mouth. “Me and Louise are having baby number two,” he tells me. “In case you hadn’t heard.”

“Oh, I heard. Congratulations.”

It’s hard not to hear about that shit because they have family text chains I get looped into and constantly have to mute, and they kept adding me to the family Facebook group. I finally locked down my Facebook profile and deleted all my friends, just so I could keep my business page, and told everyone I had a stalker.

If only.

Part of me wishes that Liam would show up out of the blue one day, sweep me off my feet, and carry me away.

I read and reread the e-mails he sends me, although those are few and far between now. I’ve never responded, though.

I can’t.

I’m not strong enough to resist him, and I don’t want to ruin his life or, worse, put it at risk.

“You ever need some advice”—Carl punches me in the arm—“just ask.”

Olivia cringes, because she knows I’ll put up with nearly anything.

But in the cause of helping her hide her deliberately childless status from her family, I’ve naturally assumed the role of protective husband on many an occasion, putting intrusively nosy family on their heels and calling them out for being insensitive to our “plight.” It’s the only way I have to mask my rage when I’m basically accused of being impotent.

Which, of course, isn’t true, even if Olivia thinks it is. But she’s not stupid enough to tell her family that, either. Because she knows damned well her family would start shoving her toward a fertility doctor.

I stand up. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mom and Dad,” as they’ve asked me to call them, “but we really need to head home because of the weather. And this is as good a time as any to break some news of our own.” The table falls silent.

Excellent.

I’m going to love disappointing them all. “With my job, and all the stress, and all the driving, we’ve decided that we’re going to start attending the Methodist church near our house.”

I smile and rest my hand on Olivia’s shoulder, squeezing. She doesn’t dare contradict me on something like this, because she knows her own parents won’t support her for “defying” her husband. “We’ve been praying on it a lot, and it feels like the Lord’s moving