I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 33: The Confession

Abel became strange.

Very, very strange.

At dinner that evening, he was a whirlwind of nervous energy. He sat across from Orion at the small table in their sitting room, but he couldn’t sit still. He shifted in his chair, tapped his fingers on the table, and his eyes kept darting to Orion’s plate.

Orion, still carrying the heavy weight of his conversation with the Duchess, had little appetite. He pushed the stewed lamb around, taking only a few bites of bread.

Abel watched him, a shy, worried smile flickering on his face. Every time Orion put his fork down, Abel’s attention sharpened.

”You should eat the carrots,” Abel said suddenly, pointing with his own fork. ”They’re good. Cook puts honey.”

”I’m alright, Abel,” Orion said softly.

A minute later, as Orion sipped his water, Abel reached over with the serving spoon and deposited a large heap of buttery peas onto Orion’s half-full plate. ”Peas! They’re green. Green is good for you.”

Orion blinked at the sudden mountain of peas. ”Husband, I’m really not that hungry.”

Abel stared at him, his golden eyes wide and earnest. He seemed to be searching Orion’s face for something—a sign, a clue. Then, with a decisive nod, he pulled Orion’s plate toward himself, scooped the peas back into the bowl, and then proceeded to pile an enormous portion of mashed turnips, three slices of roast, and two extra rolls onto his *own* plate, creating a teetering tower of food.

”I’ll eat it,” he announced, as if accepting a solemn duty. ”So it doesn’t go to waste.”

Orion watched, bewildered, as Abel began methodically working his way through the gigantic meal, eating with a focused intensity that was completely unlike his usual cheerful messiness.

After dinner, Abel was even more unusual. He played, but it wasn’t his normal, absorbed play. It was frantic. He buzzed with a vibrating energy that seemed to hum just under his skin.

He didn’t come to sit by Orion on the sofa. Instead, he gathered every cushion and pillow from the chairs and the window seat. He arranged them in a careful line on the rug before the fire.

Orion sat on the edge of their bed, watching him. A faint frown creased his brow. Something was off.

Abel knelt beside the pillows. Very gently, as if they were made of spun glass, he began to tuck the edges of a soft wool blanket around one of them. He patted it. Then he picked up another pillow and tried to cradle both against his broad chest. He fumbled, almost dropping one. He looked frustrated. He set them down, rearranged them, and tried again, this time attempting to hold three.

He wasn’t just playing. He was... practicing.

Next, he fetched his box of wooden knights. He didn’t set them up for a battle. He placed them in a careful circle around the bundled-up pillows, standing them guard. He adjusted one so its painted sword was pointing outward, protecting the nest of cushions.

Orion’s confusion deepened into concern. This was more than odd. This was purposeful, anxious, and utterly mystifying.

He slid off the bed and walked quietly across the room. He stopped a few feet away from where Abel was now trying to wrap a second blanket around two pillows at once, his big fingers clumsy with the folds.

”Abel?” Orion said softly.

Abel jumped, startled. He looked up, his eyes meeting Orion’s. For a second, pure, desperate longing flashed across his face. Then he shuttered it, looking quickly back at his pillows.

”What are you doing, love?” Orion asked, kneeling down on the rug beside him. He kept his voice gentle, non-threatening.

”Just... playing,” Abel mumbled, not meeting his eyes. He focused intently on tucking a blanket corner.

”It looks like important work,” Orion said. He reached out slowly and smoothed a rumpled edge of the blanket Abel was fighting with. His hand brushed Abel’s.

Abel flinched as if burned. He pulled his hand back and shuffled sideways, putting a foot of space between them.

The movement was small, but it felt like a chasm opening up. Orion’s heart gave a painful squeeze. Abel had never pulled away from his touch before. Not once.

Tentatively, Orion opened his arms. It was an invitation, a simple, wordless request for the closeness that had become their nightly ritual. ”Come here,” he murmured.

Abel looked at the open arms. He swayed forward, a helpless, instinctive motion. For a beautiful, hopeful second, Orion thought he would come. Then Abel froze. His whole body went rigid. He actually wiggled backwards, crablike, on the rug, putting more distance between them.

Orion let his arms fall, a cold dread seeping into his stomach. ”What’s wrong?”

Abel shook his head violently, staring at the guarded pillows.

”Abel, look at me. Can’t what? What can’t you do?”

Abel’s shoulders hunched. He was breathing too fast. ”I can’t hug you,” he whispered to the floor. ”Or kiss you.”

The words were a physical blow. Orion felt the air leave his lungs. ”Why?” he asked, his own voice barely a whisper now. The worst possibility, the one he’d been secretly fearing since the accident, rose up like a ghost. ”Is it because... you don’t like me anymore? Did I do something?”

That broke through Abel’s trance. His head snapped up, his eyes wide with horror. ”No! No, no, no!” The denial was fervent, almost angry. ”I like you the most! You’re Myorion! You’re my favorite!”

”Then why?” Orion pleaded, the confusion and hurt making his throat tight. ”Why won’t you touch me?”

The dam broke.

Abel’s face crumpled. All the frantic energy drained out of him, leaving behind a little boy swimming in a man’s body, terrified and guilty. A huge, shuddering sniff escaped him. Tears welled in his golden eyes and spilled over, tracing clean paths down his cheeks.

”I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice thick with tears. ”I’m so, so sorry, Orion.”

Orion moved without thinking, instinct driving him to comfort, but Abel held up a hand, warding him off even as he cried.

”Sorry for what? Abel, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

”Yes, I did!” Abel wailed, the sound raw in the quiet room. He swiped at his nose with his sleeve, looking utterly miserable. ”I did the bad thing! I didn’t mean to, I promise I didn’t mean to!”

”What bad thing?” Orion was completely lost.

Abel took a great, hiccupping breath. He looked at Orion with profound sorrow, his gaze dropping to Orion’s stomach. He pointed a trembling finger.

”I put too many babies inside your stomach.”

Silence.

Absolute, ringing silence.

Orion stared. He could not have heard correctly. He replayed the words in his mind. *I put too many babies inside your stomach.*

They made no sense. They were the words of a dream, a nonsense rhyme. But Abel was saying them with the absolute, tragic conviction of a man confessing to a crime.

Orion’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. His brain scrambled, trying to find a connection, a context, anything that would make this declaration fit into reality.

Abel saw his stunned silence as confirmation of the tragedy. His tears fell faster. ”I kissed you too much,” he sobbed, the explanation pouring out in a rush of guilt. ”And hugged you too close. The angel kept coming and putting baby seeds in you because I kept asking for them! And now you’re sick! You don’t eat, and you wobble, and you cry, and you hide in the bathroom at night, and it’s all my fault because I wanted to kiss you!”

He buried his face in his hands, his big shoulders shaking. ”I’m making you sick with too many babies. I’m so sorry. So I have to stop. No more kissing. No more hugging. So no more babies can get in. And...” He peeked through his fingers at the fortified pillows. ”And I have to practice. For when they come out. I have to learn how to hold lots of them at once. Because I put so many in.”

The entire bizarre puzzle clicked into place with a dizzying, heartbreaking clarity.

He thought Orion was pregnant. With multiple babies. Because of their kisses.

And he thought it was a terrible sickness he had inflicted.

Orion felt a surge of emotions so powerful it left him lightheaded. There was a wild, hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest at the sheer absurdity of it. There was a deep, aching tenderness that made his eyes prickle with tears. And there was a fierce, protective rage—not at Abel, never at Abel—but at the world, at the Duchess, at the pressure that had somehow twisted itself into this delusion inside his husband’s wounded mind.

He crawled forward on the rug, ignoring Abel’s flinch. He didn’t try to hug him. He just sat right in front of him, knees touching Abel’s, and gently pried his hands away from his tear-streaked face.

”Abel,” Orion said, his voice incredibly soft. ”Look at me.”

Abel obeyed, his eyes red and swimming with misery.

”There are no babies in my stomach,” Orion said slowly, clearly, holding his gaze.

Abel blinked. ”But... the clues...”

”The clues are wrong. I’m not eating much because I’m worried about grown-up things. I wobble sometimes because my head is still healing from the fall. I cry because I’m sad about those grown-up things. I was in the bathroom a long time because I had a headache and the cool water on my face helped.” He explained each piece patiently, dismantling the evidence with simple truth.

Abel’s brow furrowed. The logic was foreign, but he was listening, clinging to Orion’s words. ”No babies?”

”No babies,” Orion confirmed firmly. ”Not one. And you can’t put babies in someone’s stomach by kissing them. That’s not how it works.”

The confusion on Abel’s face was profound. ”But... Millie said...”

”Millie is eight. She doesn’t know how babies are made either.” Orion took a deep breath. This was a conversation he never imagined having. ”Making a baby is... different. It doesn’t happen from kisses. Your kisses didn’t make me sick, Abel. They could never make me sick. They are my favorite thing.”

The words sank in slowly. The terrible, guilty tension in Abel’s shoulders began to loosen. The frantic fear in his eyes started to fade, replaced by dawning, cautious relief.

”No babies?” he whispered again, needing to hear it once more.

”No babies,” Orion repeated. He offered a small, reassuring smile. ”You are not hurting me. You could never hurt me by loving me.”

A huge, shuddering sigh escaped Abel. It was as if a massive weight had been lifted from his chest. The relief was so intense it left him boneless. He slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest gently against Orion’s shoulder. He didn’t hug him, just leaned there, absorbing the truth.

Orion finally lifted his arms and wrapped them around Abel’s trembling form. This time, Abel didn’t pull away. He melted into the embrace with a broken little sound that was half-sob, half-sigh.

”I was so scared,” Abel mumbled into Orion’s neck, his voice muffled. ”I thought I broke you with too much love.”

Orion held him tighter, his own eyes closing against a rush of emotion. ”You can’t break me with love, my silly, wonderful husband,” he whispered, his voice thick. ”You can only ever make me feel whole.”

They stayed like that on the rug for a long time, surrounded by the silent, guarding knights and the nest of empty pillows, as the false crisis dissolved and left only the real, deep need for each other in its wake.