Page 122 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers—soft, gentle, reverent.

She didn’t wake.

My hand moved lower, tracing the curve of her neck, the line of her collarbone, the swell of her breast beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. I cupped her breast in my palm, feeling the weight of it, the warmth of her skin, and dragged my thumb across her nipple.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, a soft sound escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake.

I did it again, slower this time, savoring the feel of her, the way her body responded even in sleep.

This was mine. She was mine. And soon, she’d know it too.

I pulled my hand away reluctantly and stood, my breathing uneven.

The baby.

I crossed to the bassinet in the corner of the room where Trumai was sleeping, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. I reached down and carefully lifted her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.

She stirred but didn’t cry, her little fist curling against my shirt.

“Daddy’s got you,” I whispered. “Daddy’s going to prove it.”

I carried her out of the room, locking the door behind me, and made my way down to the private lab I’d set up in one of the converted storage rooms.

The lab was small but functional—a stainless-steel counter, a centrifuge, a portable DNA analyzer I’d paid a small fortune for, and a locked cabinet containing the supplies I’d need.

I laid Trumai down gently in the portable bassinet I’d brought in earlier, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves and got to work.

The cheek swab was easy. Trumai fussed a little when I rubbed the sterile swab against the inside of her cheek, but she didn’t cry. I sealed the swab in a sterile tube and labeled it carefully.

TRUMAI LANDRY.

Next, I swabbed my own cheek and sealed it in a second tube.

K. LANDRY.

Then I retrieved the bloodied gauze I’d taken from Amai weeks ago—the gauze he’d used to clean himself up after one of his hits, the gauze he’d left on the counter in the war room like it didn’t matter.

I’d kept it in a sealed bag in the lab’s refrigerator, waiting for this moment.

I extracted a sample from the dried blood and prepared it carefully, labeling the third tube.

A. LANDRY.

I loaded all three samples into the analyzer, programmed the parameters, and hit start.

The machine hummed to life, the soft whir of the centrifuge filling the small room.

I sat in the chair beside the counter and waited.

Trumai made a soft cooing sound from the bassinet, and I reached over to rock it gently with one hand.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I murmured. “Daddy’s right here.”

The analyzer beeped.

I stood and crossed to the screen, my heart pounding.

The results were loading—lines of data scrolling across the display, genetic markers aligning, probabilities calculating.