Page 123 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

She nodded, but her eyes were tired. Haunted.

“Just… processing,” she said quietly. “Everything that’s happened. Everything that’s still happening.”

I pulled her into my side, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and holding her close.

“You’re safe,” I said. “That’s all that matters.”

She didn’t respond. Just leaned into me and closed her eyes.

I sat there with her, the bag of snacks between us, the fire crackling softly in the background, and let the silence settle over us like a blanket.

Outside, the world continued turning, oblivious to what I’d done.

And inside, I held the woman I’d claimed, the woman I’d kill for, the woman I’d already buried my own brother to protect.

She didn’t need to know what I was capable of.

She just needed to know she was safe.

And she was.

Because I was both men—the one who brought snacks and the one who built concrete tombs.

And I’d be whichever one she needed me to be.

Chapter 11

TRUTH

The nausea hit me like a freight train.

One second, I was asleep, warm and safe in Amai’s arms, and the next I was lurching upright, my stomach twisting violently, bile rising in my throat so fast I barely had time to register what was happening.

I threw the covers off and stumbled toward the bathroom, my hand clamped over my mouth, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. The room spun slightly—or maybe that was just me, disoriented and desperate, trying not to vomit all over the expensive rug.

I made it to the toilet just in time.

The first wave came hard and fast, my body convulsing as I gripped the porcelain bowl and emptied my stomach. The sound was awful—wet, guttural, humiliating. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe through my nose, but another wave hit before I could catch my breath.

God, I hated this part.

I’d been lucky so far. The morning sickness had been manageable—mild nausea, a few queasy moments here and there, nothing I couldn’t handle. But this? This was different.This was violent and unrelenting, like my body had decided to punish me on top of everything I was dealing with.

I heard footsteps behind me, quick and purposeful, and then Amai was there.

“Truth.”

His voice was low and steady. I wanted to tell him to go away, to leave me alone, to not see me like this—on my knees in front of a toilet, retching and shaking, and completely stripped of any dignity I might have had left.

But I couldn’t speak. Another wave hit, and I gagged, my body heaving even though there was nothing left to come up.

Amai knelt beside me without a word. His hand gathered my hair—gently, carefully—and pulled it back from my face, holding it at the nape of my neck. His other hand settled on my back, warm and solid, rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades.

“I got you,” he said quietly.

I wanted to cry. Not because I was sick, but because he was here, holding my hair back like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like I wasn’t disgusting. Like I wasn’t falling apart.

I threw up again—mostly bile now, bitter and burning—and my throat felt raw, my eyes watering from the force of it. My hands trembled where they gripped the toilet seat, and I could feel sweat beading on my forehead, my skin clammy and cold.