Page 143 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I shifted my leg beneath the heavy duvet, dragging the cotton sheet with a loud, coarse rustle.

He didn’t move.

I waited five minutes, then lifted my right hand, letting my fingernail scrape lightly against the varnished wood of the nightstand—a sharp, metallic tap.

His breathing hitched instantly. His hand on my waist tightened, his body stiffening for three seconds before the deep, rhythmic snoring resumed.

Rustling fabric won’t wake him.

High-frequency metal clicks will.

Another thirty minutes passed in absolute silence.

The digital clock on the nightstand clicked over to 02:14 AM.

Kaisen’s arm grew heavy, dead weight resting across my hip, his face buried deep into the feather pillow, his breath coming in long, deep, unguarded snores.

For the first time in thirty days, Kaisen Landry had fallen asleep before me.

In the dark stateroom, my eyes snapped wide open.

I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t look at the crib. I didn’t reach for the heavy brass keyring glowing faintly on the nightstand three feet from my head.

I just stared into the blackness of the cabin, my heart beating with the cold, steady rhythm of a predator waiting for the mist to clear.

He thought I was coming to my senses.

He was right.

I was finally awake.

Chapter 25

KAISEN

The smell of browned butter and fresh rosemary filled the dining salon, cutting through the damp, mossy scent of the river outside.

I stood by the center island, carefully plating French toast dusted with confectioners’ sugar alongside a small bowl of blackberries. Sunlight fell through the wide salon windows in pale, buttery ribbons, catching the brass hardware of the cabinetry and the polished walnut dining table. It was peaceful. The kind of quiet a man spends his entire life trying to buy, only to realize peace isn’t bought with money.

It’s built with patience.

When the hallway floorboards creaked with soft, rhythmic footsteps, my chest warmed.

Truth walked into the salon, wearing the cream shirt and linen lounge pants I’d bought for her from the boutique catalogue in Houston. Her dark curls were pinned loosely on top of her head, a few soft tendrils brushing the elegant curve of her neck. In her arms, Trumai was swaddled in pale pink muslin, wide-eyed and sucking lazily on her fist.

A month ago, Truth would have stopped at the threshold. She would have stood stiff as iron, hugging the baby to her collarbone like a shield, her eyes blazing with that frantic, terrified defiance Amai had beaten into her spirit.

This morning, she didn’t hesitate.

She walked straight over to the dining table, pulled out the plush armchair directly beside mine, and sat down.

“Morning,” she said. Her voice was low and raspy with sleep, devoid of the sharp barbs she used to fling at me like shrapnel.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I said, setting the plate in front of her. I poured two cups of decaf coffee and slid one toward her hands. “How did she sleep after her three o’clock feeding?”

“Better,” Truth murmured, adjusting the blanket around Tru’s shoulders. “Only woke up once when the boat turned against the current. Her tummy settled after I burped her.”

“That’s because she knows her mother’s touch,” I said softly.