CHAPTER 193: SULTRY PLEADS

–Livana–

Seeing my husband being extra careful—so careful that he would not even let me walk—was a pain in the ass. I was ordered to stay in bed and "just relax," as though I were some delicate trinket meant to gather dust on a shelf.

The most infuriating part, however, was that Damon confiscated my tablet, my phone, and my headset. I can’t even go to my study room. He caged me under "care" and called it love. I need real-time updates from Jane and Logan, and Sophia comes to report everything from the lab—but Damon always cuts her off halfway, declaring that I "cannot listen to anything stressful."

I wanted to roll my eyes so hard they’d orbit back into place. He is the one stressing me.

"Just rest, okay?" he insisted.

My hand brushed against a throw pillow. I grabbed it and hurled it in his direction. He didn’t even dodge.

"Leave," I said coldly.

He sighed and left, footsteps soft—hesitant.

I inhaled. Exhaled. My overprotective, overreacting husband is annoying and he knows it. I reached for the television remote and turned the TV on, hoping for harmless background noise. Instead, the first thing I heard were the smug voices of corrupt politicians. Their tone alone made my blood boil.

I turned it off and threw the remote in irritation. The sharp sound of impact echoed across the room—apparently loud enough for Damon to barge back in.

"What happened?" he exclaimed.

"You are fucking annoying," I muttered, pulling the duvet over myself and turning my back on him. I could hear him picking up the remote and cleaning up the small mess. Then, the bed dipped and shifted as he sat beside me.

"I’m sorry," he said softly, his fingers gently stroking my side.

"Give me back my phone. I need to know that Jane is safe."

"I can call her," he offered.

"No. She doesn’t report to you."

Silence. Then the faint rustle of him standing and leaving. I could almost see his reluctant compliance in the trailing air. Moments later, he returned and placed my phone in my hand. Then he lay beside me again, snuggling close, pressing light kisses to my forehead and cheek.

"I’m sorry, love."

I ignored him and pressed my middle finger to the scanner, unlocking the device. I tapped number one. It rang. Damon tried to drape himself around me again, and I pushed him away—twice—until I finally sat up and shoved a pillow against his face.

"Hello, your majesty," Jane answered.

"Hi, Jane." I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d held. "How’s your new residence?"

"It’s good so far. We already got used to the routine Logan suggested."

"Hmm." I hummed in acknowledgement.

"You don’t have to worry. Logan and I will take care of everything. If there’s anything major, we’ll resolve it before the report reaches you."

A small chuckle slipped from me.

"That’s good to hear. Aside from work, I want the both of you to stay healthy."

"Yes, got it. Don’t worry. Stay healthy and don’t stress out. I can already picture Damon’s worried face."

She laughed, and I couldn’t help but chuckle as well. She’s right—Damon is ridiculously worried. Overprotective to a fault.

"Thank you, Jane. Enjoy Logan’s annoying company."

Jane scoffed.

"Yeah, I’ll try. Bye."

I hung up and set the phone aside. I lay back down, turning onto my side as Damon immediately wrapped himself around me again, warm and stubborn. This time, I let him.

Now that I have what I wanted, I can finally calm down. I allow him to hold me, silently hoping that this will all be over soon—both the stress... and this miserable bed rest.

–Damon–

I watch my wife’s every breath, every gesture, every tilt of her head as if the world might steal her away the moment I blink. I wouldn’t even let her lift anything heavier than a silk pillow—at least not on my watch. It has gone on for weeks... months, actually. Somewhere in the routine of guarding her, time blurred. Still, she’s healthy. Dr. Green said she can give birth normally — no complications, no bleeding. Both mother and child are safe. For me, that is enough reason to breathe.

Eight months pregnant now — and she is radiant. We’re at the mall, taking a slow walk. People often imagine pregnant women waddling like penguins, but mine walks like a queen in exile — graceful even in discomfort. Others see inconvenience; I see perfection.

The holiday season has passed. Our anniversary is approaching. A year already — and yet I still feel like I haven’t had enough of her. I don’t think I ever will.

"Hmm," she sniffled softly. "I smell something delicious."

"They have a pretzel with cinnamon... whatever that is," I muttered.

"Yes. That’s the one."

I brought her to the stand. I tasted it first — I always do — before handing it to her. She took a bite and nodded in satisfaction. Afterward, I led her toward the store I had already scouted in advance — massage sofas, massage devices, everything a spoiled, pregnant wife could possibly want. My wife deserves that level of comfort. My wife deserves the world.

The young CEO himself, Keith Hiroshi, was there. I contacted him hours ago — people like him know better than to make me wait. I tested the massage chairs myself. She shouldn’t strain her body just to try furniture. I intend to be her shield and filter long before she even notices a threat.

We bought two — one for Laura, and one for my gorgeous wife. I smiled at her, knowing she couldn’t see, but still hoping she would hear the softness in my voice. I reached for her hand.

"I think I got the perfect one," I murmured.

"If Mrs. Blackwell isn’t satisfied, she can always exchange it for another model," Keith added politely.

Livana turned her head slightly toward him. "Thank you, Keith."

I glanced toward the entrance and leaned closer to her.

"At your eleven o’clock — Greta Knox. And her mother," I whispered.

A slow smirk tugged at her lips. When Greta spotted us, she froze mid-step. Livana turned her face precisely to eleven o’clock — poised, unreadable, deadly elegant.

"Let them buy whatever the store offers. The company needs more income," she said calmly, patting my arm like a queen blessing her knight.

I guided her while Keith showed her additional handheld devices. Greta and Sharlane lingered in the store afterward — no doubt preparing fresh gossip. They always do. But after Richard Knox’s scandal... their social standing crumbled. Sharlane hasn’t dared show her face at major gatherings. My mother mentioned as much — the whole family is still steeped in embarrassment.

Keith escorted us out with a respectful bow.

"Thank you, Keith," my wife said — warm, gracious, regal. Anyone could fall for her charisma. I did. Harder than any sane man would.

We returned to our penthouse — close to the hospital, close to Caine’s smaller unit, convenient for emergencies and her cravings. She likes late-night takeouts lately. I like that I can get them for her.

I helped her down onto the sofa—gently, always gently—and knelt to untie her sneakers.

"So... was my ex-fiancé around the mall too?"

I scoffed. "No. Sadly. I would love to see his ridiculous face again — just so I can rub it in."

A laugh slipped out of me. "I mean, I can flaunt my wife anywhere — but that bastard had his chance with you. He could have had this." I brushed my finger across the curve of her stomach — my heir. "Instead, he ruined himself. Poor, pathetic man. His dick needs to stay in exile after last year’s humiliation."

The thought alone thrilled me — possessively.

I want him to see her now — heavy with my child. I want to burn the sight into his skull: that I am the one who claimed her. I am the one she chose. I am the one she carries life for.

Call me obsessive, childish, territorial — I don’t care.

He lost everything.

And I won her.

She said it so casually that it almost didn’t register.

"I’m horny."

My hands froze mid-motion, her foot still in my palm. For a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of her voice — sultry, impatient, unfiltered. It’s been weeks... probably before the scare with the bleeding. The doctors called it "spotting." They said it was harmless. They said it was safe.

But I don’t gamble with her. Not her body. Not my child. Not us.

I carefully set her foot down, like she was made of spun glass.

"Damon," she said again — that commanding tone, the one that leaves no room for argument. When she uses that voice, it isn’t a request. It is a decree.

My pulse kicked.

"Okay," I murmured, already kneeling between her thighs, gently guiding them apart. She couldn’t see how my composure cracked at the edges — how I was one breath away from worship or ruin.

I reached behind her and stacked pillows, supporting her back like precious cargo.

"Shouldn’t we... do this in our bedroom?" she asked.

I smirked, leaning closer.

"Baby, it’s only us here. Anyone who dares intrude will announce themselves before they even touch the door. You’re safe." I pressed a slow kiss to her knee... then to the swell of her stomach, through the soft fabric.

"Carry me to bed, please..." she pleaded.

God — her voice when she begs? I could start wars for it.

I cupped her waist. "Baby," I said low, a warning wrapped in worship, "my lips and my tongue are the only things you’re getting from me. Don’t even think about making me lose control. You are pregnant — and I will not risk a damn thing."

She let out a soft, desperate sound — not pain, not discomfort — pure want. She shook her head.

"Come on, Damon..."

Now there it was — that tone. Velvet and sin. My wife hardly ever uses it, which makes it lethal when she does.

I am a dangerous man. There are a thousand dark things I have no problem doing — except hurting her. That is the single line I will never cross. So I do what I must: I cage the wolf. I leash the hunger. I give her what she wants without breaking what I must protect.

And God help me — I love that she begs.