Page 50 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

The interior ran on the same logic as the exterior—clean lines, polished concrete, recessed lighting. Modern. The walls were old stone underneath, the kind that had been here long before any of the rest of it, and they smelled like something that had been locked in for a very long time. The air was wrong. Too thick, too cold, with a metallic edge underneath everything.

We turned down a long corridor, and I saw the cells.

Clear walls—reinforced, floor to ceiling—displaying each prisoner in their full captivity like specimens. One man paced in tight circles, his lips moving. A woman sat in the corner with her arms around her knees, and her face turned away from the glass. A man near the far end lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling with the flat, empty expression of someone who’d stopped expecting anything to change.

I kept walking.

My breathing was shallow, my chest tight.

I could feel the panic building, clawing at my throat, threatening to choke me.

My hands were shaking.

I tried to steady them, tried to breathe, but my body wasn’t listening.

The fear was too big.

Too consuming.

And then I felt it.

Warmth spreading between my legs.

No.

Oh God, no.

I was pissing myself.

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears spilling down my cheeks, my face burning with shame.

I couldn’t stop it.

I couldn’t control my own body.

When I felt my bladder let go, I stopped being able to think about anything else.

The shame hit before I’d even fully registered what was happening—hot, immediate, humiliating in a way that made the fear almost a secondary thing. I pressed my thighs together and kept walking, telling myself no one would notice, but knew that wasn’t true.

“Yaya.” Syx’s voice, tight and low.

“Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t.”

But he looked back at Amai with something burning in his face.

“You see what you’re doing to her?”

“Take your shirt off and put it around her,” Amai said. No affect. Like he was commenting on traffic.

Syx lunged.

Priest moved instantly—he’d been a half-step back on Syx’s side the whole corridor, close enough for exactly this—and had the Glock at Syx’s face before he’d cleared the gap.

“Calm that shit down before this lead have you screaming like Mariah Carey.”

Syx froze. His chest was heaving. His eyes went from the gun to me.

“Please,” I said. “Please, just stop.”