I shook my head. “Please, may I stand?”
“Oh, shit. I wasn’t thinking. Yeah, sure, stand.” Releasing my arms, he paced a trek around the office, stopping again at the desk. Picking up the plastic container, he said, “I brought you something. I know you don’t understand why, but, well, I was hoping maybe you would.” He put Fred back down and shook his head. “It’s dumb. I shouldn’t have done it. If I hadn’t taken the time to go get it . . . if I hadn’t, maybe I could’ve stopped whomever . . . goddamn it! I can’t do this again.”
Handing me a tissue, he collapsed in the same chair where he’d sat earlier. “Are you really pregnant?”
“I think I am. I haven’t taken a test.”
Dylan nodded. “Yeah, you’re kind of emotional.”
Really? I wonder why.
“I’m scared,” I confessed truthfully. “And I miss my husband.” It pained me to say that to Dylan, but, like my first statement, it wasn’t a lie.
“I don’t get it. How can you miss a guy who does that to you?”
I swallowed. “I’m not certain I’m allowed to speak so freely to you.”
Though my Sara answers were saving me, the Stella side of me made the mistake of looking up. For only a moment, our eyes met. In his stunning blue orbs surrounded by lush lashes, I saw what I’d been hearing: remorse swirling with regret. It was the storm from my dream, clouds covering the clear sky. The ache in my chest grew.
“What?” he asked, as I broke our momentary connection and bit my lip.
“Nothing,” I replied softly.
“Nothing?”
“I was in an accident almost a year ago. I drove my husband’s truck and crashed. During the time of my recovery, I kept seeing—not really seeing, imagining—blue eyes.” I shook my head, unsure which part of me was speaking. “I’m sorry. It’s not appropriate, but, Brother, your eyes remind me of my dreams. I really don’t think I should say more.”
“Dylan, not Brother, and I give you permission,” he offered.
I smiled and lowered my chin. Damn, if only it were that easy. “Bro . . . Dylan, only my husband or Father Gabriel has that authority. But I will say my husband has never done what Brother Mark just did to me. He’s never harmed me.”
“Mark?” he questioned, and then went on, “You don’t think what he did to your eye was harming you?”
I forgot about my eye.
“It was the first time he’d done that, and it was my fault. I shouldn’t have made the decision to start a family without his permission.”
“What if he’d decided to start a family, and you weren’t ready?”
“I’d trust his decision.”
“What if he told you not to go somewhere, like Highland Heights? Would you go?”
I shook my head. “No. Obeying isn’t optional.” It was one of the first things I remembered Jacob telling me.
Dylan stood and walked toward me. “Turn around.”
Though his proximity caused my trembling to resume, my conditioning wouldn’t allow me to refuse a man’s command. Slowly I did as he said, but when he touched my hair, I sucked in my breath.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything,” he explained, “except take this damn collar off you.”
I nodded as he gathered my now-dry hair to one shoulder and fumbled with the buckle. Once it was off, I sighed and massaged my tender neck. “Thank you.”
“Why are you shaking?”
“I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me or to Jacob. And I’m . . .”
“Yes, you’re pregnant,” he said, with palpable defeat evident in his voice.
“No, well, yes, but that’s not what I was going to say. I know I can’t question, but I’m hungry. I was downstairs. No one brought me anything to eat.”
For the first time, I saw Dylan’s smile, the one I remembered. “Of course you are, it’s after ten o’clock, and this is something that I can do something about. Let me get you some food.”
My skin prickled with alarm. “I don’t know.”
“What?”
“You’re being nice, but so far, you’re the only one. What if someone sees me, and I’m not allowed to eat? Withholding nutrients is an acceptable decree.”
Dylan’s eyes closed as his jaw clenched. “I hate hearing you spout doctrine.”
Bowing my head, I whispered, “We all study Father Gabriel’s word.”
He touched my chin, and this time I didn’t flinch. “I don’t need to hear it. And don’t,” he said, lifting my face to his, “be sorry. I’m sorry.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’ll go get you something from the kitchen. No one will say anything to me. You can stay in here. Lock the door and don’t let anyone but me back inside. Here”—he swiped the screen of his phone—“I have two phones. One’s for MOA . . . never mind . . . anyway, I just put the number of my other phone in this one. If anyone tries to get in here before I get back, call me.” He put the phone in my hand. “Can you do that?”