Page 105 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

Instead, I stepped inside her reach, wrapped my arms around her torso, and pinned her arms to her sides. She thrashed violently, driving her heel into my shin, trying to headbutt my nose.

“Truth, stop,” I whispered against her hair, shifting my weight. “Stop, sweetheart. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I slid my left hand up to the side of her neck, my fingers finding the carotid artery beneath the soft skin of her jaw. I applied firm, steady, medical pressure.

“No—” she gasped, her legs giving out beneath her. “Kaisen… please⁠—”

Her eyelids fluttered, her body going heavy and limp in my arms.

I caught her before she touched the floor.

I lifted her gently, cradling her head against my chest, her dark curls spilling over my forearm. Across the salon, Trumai had begun to cry, startled by the noise.

“Shh,” I murmured, kissing Truth’s warm, damp forehead as I carried her through the private corridor toward the master stateroom. “It’s okay now, sweetheart. The hard part is over.”

She was heavy and limp in my arms, her head resting against my chest, and her dark curls spilling over my forearm. I stepped into the stateroom and laid her gently in the center of the massive king-sized platform bed. Above us, the ceiling glowed in smooth tongue-and-groove teak under soft, recessed amber lighting.

I took a moment just to look at her resting there, safe at last from the chaos of the city.

Every detail of this space had been prepared for her arrival. Through the open doorway to the adjoining master bath, the marble vanity stood ready with her exact beauty routine: Fenty lip oils arranged neatly by shade, her SheaMoisture curl-enhancing smoothie, her specific lavender body butter, her preferred electric toothbrush, and the bottle of discontinued French vanilla perfume I had tracked down after hearing her mention it to Raven over the phone back before Amai had brainwashed her and she didn’t view me as a threat. Past the bath, the walk-in wardrobe stood open, filled with color-coordinated rows of dresses, silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, and denim jeans—every single tag matched her postpartum measurements. On the lower shelves were fresh boxes of her favorite sneakers, comfortable slippers, and three pairs of nursing scrubs for when she was ready to return to her passion.

Leaving the stateroom doors ajar, I walked across the hall through the white-trimmed arched doorway into the nursery.

In the center sat the exact crib she had at Amai’s. Beside it, the matching dresser and changing table were fully stocked with rows of Huggies Little Snugglers, organic baby wash, diaper cream, and stacks of soft muslin swaddles. On the mahogany bookshelf in the corner was a complete set of Saunders NCLEX Review textbooks, pharmacology flashcards, highlighters, notebooks, and the three historical novels about New Orleans she kept on her nightstand at her old house. Along the main wall, six ornate, brushed-silver picture frames hung in a perfect row—empty, waiting for our family photographs.

I lifted three-month-old Trumai from her carrier, cradling her in the crook of my arm. She was dressed in a pristine white sleeper, her tiny fingers resting against my linen shirt. I sat down in the custom velvet glider beneath the amber lamp, tipped a warm bottle into her mouth, and listened as she sucked greedily, her dark eyes blinking up at me.

A faint rustle came from the master suite across the hall, followed by a raspy, cracked whisper. “Tru…”

Then her bare feet hit the thick wool rug.

“Trumai!” she screamed, the panic tearing raw from her throat.

Stumbling footsteps rushed in, and Truth burst through the arched doorway of the nursery. Her chest heaved, her knuckles white as she gripped the doorframe, her dark eyes wide with terror as she took in the room.

“Welcome home,” I said softly, smiling down at the baby and kissing the top of Trumai’s soft black curls before looking back up at Truth with absolute devotion.

Truth stood frozen in the center of the nursery, her voice trapped in her throat, her chest heaving as she stared at me holding our daughter.

“She took two ounces,” I told her, pride swelling in my chest. “Burped like a champion, too. You don’t have to carry the weight anymore, Truth. The war is over. We’re safe.”

Her eyes darted wildly around the room. I could see the cold, suffocating realization crashing over her as she took it all in. I saw the tremor in her hands as she realized this wasn’t a sudden panic move or a quick extraction from gunfire in the Seventh Ward. I had built every square inch of this sanctuary over the past several months. Every conversation we’d had was all careful preparation. I had measured our future down to the millimeter while Amai was dragging her through the gutter.

Truth stepped closer, her hands trembling so violently she pressed them against her stomach.

“Give me my baby,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

She ripped Tru from my arms and ran down the corridor. I didn’t bother chasing her because there was nowhere for her to go. That’s why this was a flawless idea. She was forced to face her demons and all the lies Amai had twisted into that fake ass reality they lived in.

I was always the better choice!

Chapter 18

AMAI

The call came through the Bentley’s Bluetooth system at 7:43 PM.

I was doing seventy-five on I-10 East with Priest riding shotgun, both of us still running hot from the South Broad scene. My knuckles were scraped raw from putting one of those Rahsaan soldiers through a brick wall, and Priest had blood spatter across his collar from the one who’d tried to run.