CHAPTER 153: PREGNANT?

ALEXIA – POV

The morning light doesn’t feel warm.

It slices through the blinds in sharp lines, dust dancing in its path like ash from a long-dead fire. My eyes open slowly, heavy, swollen. Everything aches—not just my body, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere my hands can’t reach.

I forget where I am for a second.

Then I feel it.

His arms.

Still around me.

Still holding.

Still here.

My heart stumbles.

I don’t move. Not at first.

I’m too afraid it’ll vanish the second I shift. Like last night was a fever dream, some elaborate delusion crafted by a desperate mind too exhausted to keep fighting.

But he stirs behind me, breath warming the back of my neck.

A slow inhale.

Then his voice, rough and low: "You’re awake."

A lump lodges in my throat.

I nod.

I feel his hand—gentle—brush a strand of hair from my temple, tucking it back behind my ear like it’s sacred.

I clench my eyes shut, the burn returning.

This shouldn’t be real.

He shouldn’t be kind.

Not to me.

"You stayed..." I whisper hoarsely.

His chest rises against my back. "I wasn’t going to let you leave."

My fingers tighten on the bedsheet.

"But you should’ve," I murmur. "You had every right."

A pause.

"I had a lot of rights," he says softly. "Didn’t mean I used them wisely."

I turn slowly, just enough to see his face. He looks tired. Pale. Shadowed.

But not cold.

Not cruel.

The man in front of me isn’t the same one who spit venom at my every breath just a week ago.

He looks like he’s unraveling too—but in a way that makes room for me. Not his vengeance.

"What changed?" I ask.

His eyes meet mine.

"You," he says. "You were leaving."

I blink, confused.

"I saw you with your things. Outside. Broken. Done. And I... I realized I’d been punishing a corpse expecting it to rise from the dead."

My breath hitches.

He continues, voice barely above a whisper, "I let hate blind me. I ignored the signs—when you were sick, when you were screaming in your sleep, crying for your mother. You said it hurt, and I thought you were delirious. I thought it was nothing."

He swallows hard. "But it wasn’t nothing."

My hand trembles where it rests between us. I curl it into a fist to stop it from reaching for him.

Because I want to.

So badly.

But I’m still afraid.

"You shouldn’t forgive me," I murmur. "You don’t owe me comfort."

He touches my hand, unfolding my fingers gently. "No. I don’t. But I want to."

That breaks something inside me again.

I don’t sob this time.

I just cry—quiet, steady, like rain falling into already soaked earth.

He pulls me in again.

I let him.

Because even if it’s fleeting—even if tomorrow he hates me again—this moment is real.

And right now, I need that more than anything.

AIDEN — POV

I woke before her.

I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disturb the warmth curled against me like something fragile—like if I shifted too harshly, she’d vanish again. But eventually, I slipped out of bed, careful, silent, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

She hadn’t eaten properly in days.

That much was my fault too.

I’d fired the staff in a fit of bitterness. Told her she could clean and cook if she wanted to stay. I can’t even remember the words exactly—just the venom behind them. It tasted sour now, sitting at the back of my throat.

So I opened the fridge, cracked a few eggs, toasted some bread, fried it in butter like I remembered her liking it once.

The kitchen filled with soft sounds. Bacon popped gently. The kettle hissed. And for a moment, I imagined what this might’ve felt like if we hadn’t been through hell first. If I’d just... seen her sooner.

She shuffled in behind me just as I was plating it.

Still in the oversized shirt from last night.

Eyes puffy.

Hair a mess.

Beautiful in a way that shattered me.

"Hey," I murmured, trying to sound casual. "I made something."

She blinked at the plate, then at me, like I’d just grown another head.

I pulled a chair out for her. "Come sit."

She hesitated, then obeyed—slow, almost suspicious.

She stared at the food like it was a trap.

I sat across from her, elbows on the table, fingers twitching.

"Eat," I urged gently.

She reached for the fork with trembling fingers. Brought a small bite to her mouth.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

And then—

She bolted.

"Alexia?!"

I rushed after her, skidding into the bathroom just in time to hear her retching.

My stomach dropped.

She knelt by the toilet, coughing, trembling.

I sank to my knees beside her, grabbing a towel and wiping her mouth even as she tried to turn away. "Hey, hey—it’s okay."

She looked at me through glassy eyes, dazed and miserable.

"I’m sorry," she whispered. "I didn’t mean to waste it—"

"Forget the food," I said quickly, heart hammering. "Are you sick? Did you feel like this before?"

She shook her head. "I—I don’t know."

I stood up, grabbed the plate, sniffed it, then took a bite myself—cautious, tasting it.

Fine. It was fine.

Still, I dumped it in the sink and scrambled for something lighter.

Toast. Just dry toast.

I brought it to her on a napkin. She tried again.

Same result.

"Okay—no," I said, voice sharp with fear now. "We’re going to the hospital."

"No—Aiden—"

"Don’t argue."

I scooped her into my arms.

She was too light.

Bones under skin.

How hadn’t I noticed before?

Because you were too busy making her suffer.

I didn’t even let her get dressed properly. Just wrapped a blanket around her and carried her straight to the car, barking at William to start the engine.

"What happened?" Tobias asked, his face drawn tight.

"She’s throwing up. She can’t keep anything down."

His eyes flicked to Alexia’s pale, shivering figure in my arms. He said nothing else. Just nodded and got us there faster than I’d ever seen him drive.

My mind spun the entire way. Illness. Infection. Had I pushed her too far? Was this from the wound she’d barely survived?

She clung to me as I carried her inside the ER, burying her face against my neck like she didn’t want to be seen.

My voice shook as I told the nurse her symptoms.

When the nurse asked if she could be pregnant, I felt her flinch.

I froze.

I turned to look at her slowly.

Alexia’s eyes were wide. Haunted. "I—I don’t think—I mean—I can’t—"

But she didn’t finish the sentence.

Because I already knew.

I saw the memory flash across her face—the fear, the confusion, the night of pain and passion and blurred lines. My breath caught.

We both turned back to the nurse.

She gave us a quiet nod. "We’ll test. Don’t worry."

I tried to breathe.

Alexia’s fingers curled around mine.

And I squeezed back.

God help me.

Whatever this was.

I wasn’t going to run this time.