Method for Matrimony – Jupiter Tides Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Suspense Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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I stared at him. He looked good. Like he always did. Tanned. Flannel over top of his muscled arms, long-sleeved shirt underneath, fitting tight to his torso. There was a thick shadow at his jaw because he hadn’t shaved in a while. It could almost be called a beard. It made him look older and more brutal. The lines of his face seemed deeper, too, or maybe it was because of the way he was looking at me.

His expression was hard, void of emotion, and he was looking at me. No, he was… inspecting me.

There was absolutely no heat or appreciation in his gaze. In fact, it seemed that in his appraisal, I was coming up lacking.

I fucking hated how self-conscious that made me.

My roots were showing at the top of my head because I’d abstained from my hair appointments out of an abundance of caution. I didn’t have any makeup on, which served to accentuate the pallor of my skin, the sunken cheekbones, and overall gaunt appearance to my normally full face.

I was wearing leggings and a tank, having made a half-assed attempt at doing some kind of workout and then vomiting in the middle of it.

Then I’d doomscrolled on social media, scowling at all the pregnant women running marathons and skipping around in heels and full makeup, further making me feel like a weak little bitch who wasn’t supposed to be a mother.

I mean, if I was supposed to be a mother, wouldn’t my body accept the little parasite inside me? Instead, I was ejecting any and all nutrients I tried to shove into my body.

Maybe nature had been trying to tell me I wasn’t supposed to be a mother with all those other losses, and I was only still pregnant now because Kip had some stubborn alpha sperm that wouldn’t admit defeat.

To sum up, I looked like shit and felt like shit.

It was not my best day.

“What?” I asked him, having to stop myself from wrapping my arms protectively around my middle. In fact, I had no idea what to do in his presence. It was awkward. Like he was some one-night stand who regretted fucking me and was hanging around because he had nowhere else to go.

I was in the kitchen, so I walked to the fridge, opening it and wincing at the idea of any of the food in there. Everything made me want to gag. Instead of food, I grabbed a can of Sprite—the only thing I could reliably keep down.

“You’ve lost weight,” he repeated when I closed the fridge. He was leaning against the other end of the counter, careful to keep distance between us.

As if pregnancy was catching or some shit.

“Well, I’ve been spewing up almost everything I’ve tried to force into my body, so that makes sense,” I told him, cracking open the Sprite.

“You’re not supposed to be losing fuckin’ weight. You’re meant to be gaining it,” Kip clipped, sounding pissed.

I glared at him. His posture was tense, and his eyes were narrowed on the can in my hands. “And you’re not my fucking doctor,” I informed him. “You’re my fake husband and very reluctant and soon-to-be estranged baby daddy. None of those titles really give you any rights to comment about my weight.” I slammed the can down on the counter. I’d been such a miserable bitch lately. Anger felt really fucking good.

“Well, you’re meant to be growing a fuckin’ child, and it can’t survive on fuckin’ Sprite,” Kip shot back.

I raised my brow at him. “Are you serious?” I asked quietly. “You’re really here, commenting on the one thing I can put in my body without disastrous consequences, acting like you give a shit after a month of the cold shoulder? No. Fuck that and fuck off. You have no idea what I’m going through, and it’s none of your business!”

I was yelling at the end now. Yelling felt good. I really wanted to get in his face to scream at him, but I didn’t have the energy, and I couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t vomit in his face. Not that he didn’t deserve some vomit in his face.

Kip stared at me expressionless, seemingly digesting what I just said. “You’re right,” he said finally. “It is none of my business.” Then he turned and walked out of the room.

kip

I was a piece of shit.

My reflection glared at me with the hatred and judgment I deserved. And then some.

I’d promised myself I’d never be my father’s son. I’d never make my wife feel small, wounded, and weak. I’d never take out my own shit on a woman who did nothing wrong except find herself married to me.

Yet here I was, doing it. Repeating the fucking pattern.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” I told my reflection.

Except now I wasn’t seeing myself. I was seeing Fiona, the bones of her hips jutting out in those leggings, her full face now gaunt, her lips pale.


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