The testing didn't stop.
It just changed form.
She stopped pushing for fights. Stopped provoking him in ways that were obvious. Instead, she started playing with things she shouldn't touch. Small things at first. A joke here. A comment there. Nothing he could point to and say this is wrong.
But he felt it.
Every word. Every laugh. Every time she said something that should have been innocent but wasn't.
---
It started with a breakup joke.
They were in bed. The city was dark. His hand was on her stomach, feeling their daughter kick.
"If we ever break up," she said, "I'm keeping the penthouse."
Damien's hand stopped moving.
"What?"
"I'm just saying. I've gotten used to the view."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"No." He sat up. Looked at her. "It's not."
She looked at him. Her eyes were light. Playful. Like she didn't understand why he was upset.
"It was a joke, Damien."
"I don't joke about losing you."
---
She should have stopped there.
Should have seen the look on his face. The fear. The pain. The way his hand had clenched into a fist beneath the sheets.
She didn't stop.
"Everything is so serious with you," she said. "Can't we just... laugh?"
"Laugh about what?"
"About us. About how ridiculous we are. About how we're having a baby when neither of us knows how to be normal."
"We're not normal."
"I know." She touched his face. "That's what I'm trying to say. We're not normal. So why do we have to act like we are?"
---
He relaxed.
Slightly.
"You want to be ridiculous?"
"I want to be us."
"Us isn't ridiculous."
"Us is terrifying." She smiled. "And beautiful. And crazy. And the only thing that's ever made sense."
He pulled her close.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"Don't joke about leaving me."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
She kissed him.
"Promise."
---
She broke the promise three days later.
They were at dinner. A restaurant. A public place. She was laughing at something he'd said, her hand on her stomach, her eyes bright.
"What if the baby looks like you?" she asked.
"Then she'll be beautiful."
"What if she has your temper?"
"Then she'll be dangerous."
"What if she has my taste in men?"
Damien set down his fork.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I have terrible taste." She was still laughing. "I mean, look at you. A killer. A monster. A man who's done unspeakable things."
"And you love me."
"I do." She tilted her head. "But I shouldn't. Any reasonable woman would have run."
"You're not reasonable."
"No." She reached across the table. Took his hand. "I'm yours."
---
The joke was small.
Almost innocent.
But Damien heard what she wasn't saying.
I shouldn't love you.
Any reasonable woman would have run.
You're a monster.
She was testing him. Pushing him. Seeing how much he could take before he broke.
He didn't break.
But something inside him cracked.
---
The pregnancy jokes started the next week.
They were in the living room. She was reading a book about childbirth. He was watching her from the couch.
"This says I should have a birth plan," she said.
"Okay."
"It says I should decide who I want in the room with me."
"I'll be there."
"I know." She looked at him. "But what if I don't want you there?"
The room went silent.
"What?"
"I'm just asking." Her voice was light. "What if I want my sister instead? Or a doula? Or no one?"
"Christabel."
"It's my body. My birth. My choice."
He stood up.
Walked to her.
Stood in front of her chair.
"You want to give birth without me?"
"I want to know that I have options."
"You have options." His voice was low. Controlled. "You can give birth in a hospital. Or at home. Or in Verona. I don't care where. But I will be there."
"And if I say no?"
"You won't."
"But what if I do?"
He knelt in front of her.
Took her hands.
"I would never forgive you," he said. "And I would never forget."
---
She saw it then.
The monster.
Not the one she'd been testing. The one beneath. The one who would burn the world if she tried to keep him from their daughter.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay, you can be there."
He kissed her hands.
"Thank you."
She watched him.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than the need to push.
She felt afraid.
---
The infidelity jokes were the worst.
They started small. A comment about an old boyfriend. A laugh about someone she'd dated before Damien.
"I ran into Liam yesterday," she said.
Damien went still.
"Liam?"
"The guy I was seeing before you. The nice one."
"What did he want?"
"Nothing. He just said hello." She shrugged. "He asked how I was doing. Asked about the baby."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him I was happy."
"Are you?"
She looked at him.
Her eyes were unreadable.
"Most of the time."
---
Most of the time.
Not all the time.
Not always.
The words hung in the air between them.
"Christabel—"
"It was a joke, Damien."
"It didn't sound like a joke."
"Then you're not listening."
He stood up.
Walked to the window.
Stared out at the city.
"Maybe I'm not," he said. "Maybe I've been trying so hard to be what you need that I've stopped paying attention to what you're actually saying."
"And what am I saying?"
He turned to face her.
"That you're bored."
---
She didn't deny it.
Didn't confirm it.
Just looked at him with those dark eyes, waiting to see what he would do.
"You want to know what I think?" he asked.
"What?"
"I think you're scared."
"Of what?"
"Of being happy." He walked back to her. Knelt in front of her chair. "Of being loved. Of having something you can't control."
"I can control everything."
"No." He touched her face. "You can't control me. You never could. And that's what you loved about me in the beginning."
"And now?"
"Now you're trying to see if you can."
---
She was quiet for a long moment.
The city hummed below them. Somewhere in the building, a door opened and closed.
"Maybe I am," she said finally.
"Maybe you're what?"
"Bored." She looked at him. "Maybe I'm bored of being safe. Of being loved. Of being... wanted."
"You're bored of being loved?"
"I'm bored of being loved gently."
Damien stood.
Pulled her to her feet.
"You want to be loved hard?"
"Yes."
"Dangerously?"
"Yes, Damien."
"While you're carrying our daughter?"
"Especially now."
---
He kissed her.
Not gently.
The way she remembered.
She kissed him back the same way.
But when he tried to carry her to the bedroom, she stopped him.
"Not yet," she said.
"What?"
"I want you to tell me something first."
"What?"
"Tell me you'd kill for me."
"I've killed for you."
"Tell me again."
"I'd kill for you, Christabel."
"Tell me you'd die for me."
"I'd die for you."
"Tell me you'd burn the world for me."
He looked at her.
His eyes were dark.
"I'd burn the world for you. And I'd smile while it burned."
---
She kissed him.
Hard.
And this time, she didn't stop him from carrying her to the bedroom