Page 208 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

And now I was paying the price.

But so was she.

And so was Priest.

I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen, willing a message to appear. Some sign that Priest was okay. That Winston hadn’t hurt him.

But there was nothing.

Just silence.

I thought about calling Winston. Demanding to know where Priest was. Threatening him the way he’d threatened me.

But I knew it wouldn’t work.

Because Winston held all the cards.

And he had just proven—with a bullet—that he was willing to use violence to keep me in line.

I was trapped.

Trapped between my father’s control and my obsession with Truth.

Trapped between the man I’d been raised to be and the man I wanted to become.

Trapped between duty and desire.

And I didn’t know how to escape.

I closed my eyes and let the exhaustion wash over me.

Tomorrow, I’d figure it out.

Tomorrow, I’d find a way to get Priest back.

Tomorrow, I’d prove to Truth that I wasn’t like the rest of my family.

But tonight—tonight I was just a man lying in the dark, bleeding and broken, wondering how the fuck I’d gotten here.

Wondering if love was supposed to feel this much like drowning.

Wondering if I’d ever find a way to breathe again.

Chapter 17

KAISEN

Two weeks

Fourteen days since Winston pulled me out of that concrete tomb. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since I’d heard Truth’s voice. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes since I’d known if she was okay. If the baby was okay.

If they were even still alive. Which I knew they were because Amai would be losing his shit.

I paced the length of my living room for what had to be the hundredth time that day, my phone clutched in my right hand like a lifeline I was too afraid to use. The hardwood floor creaked beneath my feet—a rhythm I’d memorized over the past two weeks. Seven steps to the window. Turn. Nine steps to the kitchen doorway. Turn. Repeat.

My left side still ached where Amai had buried the knife. The wound was healing—Dr. Arceneaux had done good work stitching me up after Winston’s men extracted me—but it was tender. Painful when I moved wrong. A constant reminder of what my brother was capable of when someone threatened what was his.

Or who hethoughtwas his.