Dane's POV:
The washcloth in my hand feels like a lead weight. I'm rubbing her belly, trying to be gentle, but all I can think about is the six years of skin I missed.
The question has been clawing at the back of my throat since she told me about our child , and now that the house is quiet and the fire is dying down, I can't choke it back anymore.
I look up at her, and the way she flinches—just a tiny, fractional hitch in her breathing—makes my stomach turn. She's paralyzed. She's looking at me like I'm a judge instead of the man who just had her screaming in a barn.
Was it a burden, Rain? The thought is a jagged piece of glass in my head.
Did you look at that positive stick and see a prison sentence? Did you curse my name every time your jeans got too tight?
Did you not want to keep our baby?
Did you hate our baby because of me?
"Danny…. those times were different. I—I was in a very different space," she stammers.
