Page 4 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

“Where?” Winston’s voice was steady, but I could hear the fear underneath. “Where does it hurt, baby?”

“Everywhere.” Tears streamed down her face. “My hands—my knees. I can’t—I can’t move?—”

Her whole body was trembling. Shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

Fever.

I could see it in the flush of her skin, the glassy look in her eyes when she finally opened them.

“Amai.” She saw me standing there, and something in her face crumpled. “Baby, I’m sorry—I didn’t want you to see?—”

“Don’t.” I moved then, crossing the room in three strides and dropping beside Dad. “Don’t apologize, Mama.”

Up close, it was worse.

The rash had spread down her neck, angry red patches that looked like they burned. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, like every inhale cost her something she couldn’t afford to give.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” Dad said, already reaching for his phone.

“No.” Mama’s hand shot out—slow and painful—and grabbed his wrist. “No hospital.”

“Odette!”

“I saidno.” Her voice was stronger now, stubborn even through the pain. “I’m not spending another week in that place with doctors poking and prodding and telling me things I already know.”

“Baby, you need?—”

“I need to be in my own bed.” She looked at him with eyes that had seen too much suffering, endured too much loss. “I need you. Not them.”

I watched the war play out on his face—the need to protect her versus the need to respect her wishes. The same war I’d watched him fight a hundred times before.

He always let her win.

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice soft in a way I’d never heard him use with anyone else. “Okay, baby. No hospital.”

He slid one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her like she weighed nothing. Like she was made of glass and might shatter if he wasn’t careful enough.

Mama whimpered when he moved her.

The sound cut through me like a blade.

“I know,” Winston murmured, carrying her toward the bed. “I know it hurts. I’ve got you.”

He laid her down on top of the covers with a gentleness that would have shocked anyone who knew him in the streets. Adjusted the pillows behind her head. Pulled the throw blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over her legs.

“Amai.” He didn’t look at me. “Medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Prednisone, the high dose. And the pain medication—the bottle with the red label.”

I moved on autopilot.

The bathroom was pristine—white marble, gold fixtures, and a medicine cabinet that looked more like a pharmacy. I found the bottles he’d mentioned, plus the anti-inflammatory gel she used on her joints.

When I came back, Dad was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Mama’s hand—the one that wasn’t as swollen—and talking to her in a low, steady voice.

“—going to be okay. You’re strong. Stronger than this. You’ve beaten it before. You’ll beat it again.”

“I’m tired, Winston.” Her voice was so small. “I’m so tired of fighting.”

“I know, baby. But you don’t have to fight alone. I’m right here.”