Page 125 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

“And now?” I whispered.

His expression shifted—something fierce and possessive flickering across his face.

“Now I want it all,” he said simply.

The words hung in the air, igniting the heat between us.

I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to respond to that kind of honesty, that kind of vulnerability. So, I just sat there, staring at him, my heart pounding in my chest.

Another wave of nausea rolled through me—gentler this time, but still enough to make me grimace. I leaned forward again, gripping the toilet, and Amai’s hand was immediately back on my back, steadying me.

“Easy,” he murmured.

I dry-heaved a few times, my body trying to expel something that wasn’t there anymore. It was painful and exhausting, and I wanted it to stop. I wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to not be this fragile, broken thing that couldn’t even keep food down.

But Amai didn’t seem bothered. He just kept rubbing my back, kept holding the towel against my neck, kept being there.

When the wave passed, I slumped back against the wall, too tired to move. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My head was spinning. My mouth tasted like death.

“I have Natasha’s meal plan,” Amai said after a moment.

I looked at him, confused. “What?”

“Your chef. Natasha. I got the meal plan she was making for you back home.”

I blinked. “How did you?—”

“Priest,” he said simply. “I had him get it. Figured you’d need it.”

Of course he did. Of course he’d thought of that. Of course he’d made sure I had access to the same carefully planned meals Natasha had been preparing for me—the ones designed to keep my nausea manageable and my nutrition balanced.

“I’ll go to the store,” he continued. “Get you something that’ll sit better. Once I make sure you’re okay.”

I stared at him, overwhelmed by the casual way he said it. Like it was nothing. Like driving to the store at—I glanced at the clock on the bathroom wall—5:32 in the morning to get food for a pregnant woman who’d just thrown up everything but her soul was just something he did.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said weakly.

“I know.”

He stood and grabbed a washcloth from the towel rack, ran it under cold water, and wrung it out. Then he knelt in front of me again and gently wiped my face—my forehead, my cheeks, around my mouth. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He didn’t respond. Just finished cleaning my face, folded the washcloth, and set it aside.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure. My legs felt like jelly, and my head was still spinning slightly. But I didn’t want to stay on this bathroom floor any longer than I had to.

Amai stood first, then reached down and helped me to my feet. His hands were steady on my arms, holding me upright until I found my balance. When I swayed slightly, he pulled me against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist to keep me steady.

“I got you,” he said again.

And I believed him.

Because despite everything—despite the violence, despite the lies, the bullshit with his brother—he was here. Holding me. Taking care of me. Being the man I needed him to be.

And maybe that was the most terrifying part of all.