“Cormac has never been this passionate with you, has he?” she said, smiling mockingly. “He says you’re like a block of wood in bed. Ha, you can’t even satisfy him.”
Her words barely scratched me.
When I only looked at her with amusement, she pressed on. “So what if I lost my baby? Don’t think Cormac cares that much about your child. He’s sick of having to deal with such a weak, constantly-ill kid.”
“And me?” She placed a hand over her flat stomach and smirked. “I’ll give Cormac a healthy heir. And then, you and that sickly little boy will be thrown out sooner or later!”
There was an ugly, inexplicable hatred burning in her eyes.
My face turned to ice. My son was my bottom line; no one was allowed to hurt him!
“You’re braver than I thought,” I said coldly. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll lay a hand on you?”
But she only laughed and tossed something at me—a pregnancy test kit.
It showed two red lines.
“I bet you won’t dare,” she sneered. “The first time you hit me, Cormac let it slide for the sake of your history together. But if you dare touch me again, he will never let it slide again.”
Her face was full of blind faith in Cormac, the same kind of faith I used to have.