Page 129 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

“Kaisen—”

“I have false identification,” he continued smoothly, tapping the pocket of his khakis. “I have cash. I found a private family health practice two towns inland that takes walk-in cash payments without running state database verification. I’ll register her as Maya Vance. I’ll be in and out in ninety minutes.”

“I am not letting you take my baby away from me!” The panic tore out of my throat, raw and suffocating.

“Truth.” He stepped toward me, catching my shoulders in his hands. I flinched, but he held on with firm, unyielding strength, staring into my eyes with that terrifying, serene conviction. “Look at me. I would die before I let anything happen to our daughter. You know that. I’m doing this for her. And I’m doing it to protect you from exposure.”

He leaned down, pressing a gentle, chilling kiss against my forehead while I stood stiff as a corpse.

“Pack the diaper bag,” he whispered against my skin. “Extra bottles. Her immunization record card from the hospital. Her spare clothes. I leave in ten minutes.”

He released me and walked toward the small inflatable skiff he had secured to the lower boarding platform after Hector’s escape.

My heart was hammering so violently against my ribs that I thought my chest would split open.

He was taking her ashore.

Into the real world. Into a public building with roads, cars, cash registers, trash cans, receptionists, and human beings who were not trapped in this floating madhouse.

I had ten minutes.

I rushed back into my cabin, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I grabbed the diaper bag and dumped the contents on the bed.

Diapers. Wipes. Three pre-mixed bottles of formula. A burp cloth. A spare yellow onesie.

I couldn’t write a note that said I’m on a riverboat near water. If Kaisen searched the bag and found a note with details, he would kill the trip, lock me in the hold, and let Trumai suffer. If the clinic found a generic kidnapping note, they might call local police, panic, trigger an armed standoff, or Kaisen would shoot his way out with my baby in his arms.

It had to be something invisible to Kaisen.

Something meaningless to a nurse or a receptionist.

Something that would only mean one thing to one specific, terrifying man if his intelligence network ever caught a whisper of it.

Before I had time to think of something, he appeared.

“Everything ready?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Two bottles in the side pouch,” I said, my voice dead, my face a mask of stone. “Immunization record in the front pocket. The yellow onesie if she spits up after the shots.”

Kaisen took the bag from my hand. He unzipped the top flap, glanced inside, saw the neat stacks of diapers, the bottles, the yellow cotton, and zipped it back up without disturbing the base.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

He stepped onto the lower platform, securing the car seat into the center of the skiff.

The small outboard motor coughed once, twice, then hummed into a steady, low purr.

I walked to the reinforced glass window of the salon, pressing both palms flat against the cold surface.

Kaisen cast off the line. The skiff cut through the dark, glassy water, moving toward the dense green wall of the shoreline, carrying my daughter away into the mist.

I stood there alone in the silent, luxurious cage, watching the ripples fade into nothing.

My hands were shaking, but my spine was steel.

I am not gone, I thought, staring out at the vast, uncaring bayou while the lock on the salon door clicked shut behind me. I am not broken. And I am not done.

“Find us, Amai,” I whispered against the glass. “Find us.”