Chapter 4: The First Public Display
The dress was emerald green, a simple ribbed knit that Colt had produced from a bag two days prior. It had no tags. It clung to every dip and curve, skimming over her hips and falling to mid-thigh. Most notably, it stretched taut over the new, firm prominence of her belly. When she’d put it on, she’d stared at herself. There was no hiding it now. The soft shelf below her navel was a clear, undeniable arc.
“You look,” Colt had said, leaning in the bedroom doorway, “like a fucking dream.”
Now, his hand was a brand on the small of her back as he guided her through the heavy oak door of The Grizzly Lodge. The warmth hit her first, then the smell—woodsmoke, frying oil, stale beer, and the underlying tang of pine cleaner. The lighting was dim, pooled from antler-chandeliers and flickering lanterns on rough-hewn tables. A Willie Nelson song whined from a corner jukebox.
Conversation dipped for a split second as they entered. Eyes, accustomed to the same familiar faces, tracked them. Mei-Lin felt them like physical touches: on her face, her breasts, her stomach where the green fabric pulled snug. Colt’s hand pressed firmer, steering her toward a corner booth shadowed by a large stone fireplace.
He slid in first, not across from her, but beside her, forcing her into the corner, his body a wall between her and the room. His thigh pressed against hers under the table.
A waitress with tired eyes and a name tag reading ‘Darla’ slapped two laminated menus down. “Evening, Colt. What can I get y’all to drink?” Her gaze flicked to Mei-Lin’s left hand, ringless, then away.
“Water for her. Sweet tea for me.” His voice left no room for alternative.
When Darla left, Mei-Lin leaned closer to him, the words a whisper. “They’re all staring.”
“Let them.” He didn’t look at the room. He looked at her. His hand settled on her knee, then began a slow journey upward, pushing the soft fabric of her dress until his palm was warm on her bare thigh. “They should see what’s mine.”
The menu was a list of heavy, greasy comforts. Colt took it from her shaking hands. “I’ll order. You need the iron. The protein.”
He ordered for them both when Darla returned: a rare steak with extra onions, a loaded baked potato, side of greens cooked with ham hock. For Mei-Lin, a chicken pot pie, the crust golden in the picture.
“You finishing that whole pie, darlin’?” Darla asked, her pen hovering.
“She will,” Colt answered, his voice flat.
The food arrived swiftly, steaming platters that smelled of home and salt. Colt cut into his steak, the blood pooling on the plate. He speared a piece, swirled it in the juices, and held it out to her. “Here.”
She opened her mouth, letting him feed her the rich, metallic bite. It was an intensely intimate act, performed in the middle of the murmuring lodge. He watched her chew, swallow, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now yours.” He nudged her pot pie.
She ate. He watched every forkful. He fed her another piece of his steak, a forkful of his buttery potato. His hand, which had retreated, returned under the table. This time, it settled high on her thigh, his fingertips brushing the edge of her underwear. She stiffened, a flush creeping up her neck.
“Easy,” he said, his voice low, for her alone. “Just touching. Just remembering what’s under here.” His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She felt herself grow wet, a traitorous response she couldn’t control. She kept eating, the savory pie turning to paste in her mouth.
From a nearby table of men in plaid and worn denim, a low chuckle rolled. “Looks like Colt’s found himself a new project. Gotta keep her fed, don’t you, Walker?”
Colt’s hand stilled. He didn’t turn his head. His gaze remained on Mei-Lin, but something in his face hardened, like cooling iron. “She’s not a project, Boyd.” His voice carried, calm and deadly clear. “She’s my wife.”
The word dropped into the room like a stone. Mei-Lin’s fork clattered against her plate. Wife. It was a lie. A shield. A claim so absolute it stole the air from her lungs.
The man, Boyd, held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk playing on his lips. “My mistake. Congratulations are in order, then.” His eyes, glittering with insolent curiosity, raked over Mei-Lin’s body, lingering on her midsection. “Seems you’ve been busy.”
Colt moved then. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Boyd. The firelight caught the planes of his face, casting it in sharp, predatory relief. He didn’t speak. He just looked. The smirk faded from Boyd’s face, replaced by a wary tension. After a long, silent moment, Boyd turned back to his beer, the conversation at his table dying to a murmur.
Colt turned back to her. His hand, which had fisted on her thigh, relaxed. He speared a piece of her chicken, lifted it to her lips. “Eat,” he said, the command softer now, edged with something like triumph. “You’re eating for two.”
The rest of the meal passed in a bubble of tense silence. He paid in cash, leaving a bill on the table without waiting for change. His arm went around her waist as they stood, his hand splayed possessively over her belly, framing it for the entire room to see. They walked out under the weight of the collective stare, a current of speculation and judgment she could feel on her skin.
The cold night air was a shock. He didn’t speak on the drive back. The truck’s cab was filled with the heat of his silent satisfaction. He’d declared her. He’d marked their territory in front of the whole damn town.
Inside the cabin, he locked the door. The fire he’d built earlier was coals. He didn’t stoke it. He turned to her, his back to the dim orange glow.
“Take it off,” he said.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the hem of the dress. She pulled it over her head, standing before him in just her bra and the simple cotton underwear. The cool air puckered her skin.
“Everything.”
She unhooked her bra, let it fall. Slid her underwear down her legs. She stood naked, her arms half-raised, unsure whether to cover her breasts or the swell of her stomach.
He looked his fill, his eyes traveling over her with a heated, obsessive thoroughness. “Come here.”
She stepped toward him. He didn’t touch her. He just looked. “Turn around. Let me see all of you.”
She turned, facing the dying fire, feeling more exposed than she had in the crowded lodge. His gaze was a physical pressure on her back, the curve of her rear, the backs of her thighs.
“On your knees. On the rug.”
She lowered herself to the woven wool before the hearth. The rough texture scratched her knees. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt, the slide of his zipper. Then his hands were on her hips, pulling her back towards him. He knelt behind her.
He didn’t enter her. He leaned forward, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear. “They all saw you tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot. “They all saw that belly. They know what I did. What I put inside you.” One hand slid around to cradle the firm curve, holding her possessively. “They know you’re full of me.”
His other hand slid between her thighs from behind, his fingers finding her wet, open, ready for him. He groaned. “This is because of them, isn’t it? Because they looked? Because I told them you were mine?”
He was right. The humiliation, the exposure, the fierce, public claiming—it had all coalesced into this acute, desperate ache. She pressed back against him, a silent plea.
He denied her. Instead, he urged her forward, until her hands were flat on the rug and she was bowed before him. Then he lowered his head.
His mouth on her was not gentle. It was hungry, consuming, a reclamation. He licked and sucked with a single-minded intensity, as if devouring the very memory of the other men’s eyes on her. She cried out, her fingers clutching at the wool. The orgasm was sharp, sudden, wrenched from her with a force that left her shaking.
Before the pulses even faded, he was moving. He positioned himself, and with one powerful thrust, he was inside, filling the empty, clenching space. He set a brutal, deep rhythm, each drive punctuated by a growled word against her shoulder.
“Mine.”
“Wife.”
“Pregnant.”
“Mine.”
He was branding her from the inside out, overwriting every uncertain glance from the lodge with the solid, pounding reality of his possession. When he came, it was with a raw, shuddering groan, his body locking around hers, his release pumping deep into her welcoming heat. He collapsed over her, his weight pinning her to the rug, his hand still splayed over the life growing in her belly.
Long minutes passed. The coals crackled softly. His breathing slowed against her neck.
“We need to see a doctor,” he said into the quiet, his voice raspy.
The words were so practical, so at odds with the animalistic scene of moments before, that it took her a moment to process. “A doctor?”
“For the baby. You need… care. Official care.” He shifted, pulling out of her, but rolling to gather her against him on the rug. He wrapped an arm around her, his hand once more resting on her stomach. “There’s a clinic in Bryson City. A woman. She’s discreet.”
Mei-Lin’s mind, still fuzzy with endorphins and submission, sharpened. A doctor meant tests. Ultrasounds. Facts. A world of sterile reality about to intrude on their dark, private paradise. It meant someone else examining the evidence of his obsession, measuring it, commenting on it.
“When?” she whispered.
“Monday.” He kissed her temple. “I’ll be there. I won’t let anyone touch you without me.”
The promise was a threat. A vow. She nestled back against him, the full weight of the evening settling over her. She had been paraded, claimed, and consumed. Now, she was to be examined. The outside world was seeping in, but he was determined to frame even that as an extension of his control. As she drifted towards sleep on the scratchy rug, the last thing she felt was the faint, fluttering pressure of his palm, as if he could already feel the proof of his declaration stirring beneath her skin.