Page 144 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I pulled out my chair and sat beside her. I didn’t rush. I didn’t crowd her. I let the space between us feel natural, the way a husband sits with his wife on an ordinary Sunday morning. Slowly, giving her every second to track the movement, I leaned in.

My lips brushed against the warm skin of her forehead.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull back or turn her cheek into her shoulder. She held perfectly still, exhaling a quiet, steady breath against my collarbone. Her skin smelled of sweet almond oil and the warm, milky scent of our daughter.

That tiny concession—that single second of surrendered resistance—sent a wave of pure, crystalline relief through my blood.

The nightmare is over, I thought, my heart expanding until it ached behind my ribs. She’s finally letting herself heal.

“You need to eat while it’s hot,” I said, pulling back with a gentle smile. “The syrup will soak through if you let it sit.”

Truth looked down at the fork, then at Trumai in her lap. Her brow furrowed with a faint, tired hesitation.

“Here,” I offered, holding out my arms, keeping my hands open and steady. “Let me take her. Eat with both hands for once. You carry her all day.”

For half a second, her dark eyes flickered, calculating something beneath the surface. But then the tension melted from her shoulders. She leaned across the small space between our chairs and carefully transferred Trumai into my arms.

“Keep her head supported,” Truth said quietly, her fingers brushing mine as she let go. “She’s still a little congested from the damp air.”

“I know, baby. I’ve got her.”

The moment Tru settled against my chest, the world fell into complete alignment.

She was so light, so impossibly warm. I curled my left forearm beneath her back, supporting her tiny neck with my palm, feeling the steady, fragile flutter of her heartbeat against my ribs. She looked up at me with those deep, dark Landry eyes—eyes that carried the exact arch of my grandmother’s brow and the quiet intelligence of my own bloodline.

“Look at you,” I whispered down at her, brushing the knuckle of my thumb across her chubby cheek. “Look at my sweet girl. You’re growing so fast.”

Truth picked up her fork and cut into the French toast. She took a small bite, chewing slowly, her gaze lingering on the plate before lifting to the window, watching the green cypress trees glide silently past the glass.

“The water is calm today,” she remarked, taking a sip of the warm chicory coffee.

“We entered a protected channel before sunrise,” I told her, rocking Tru with a gentle, continuous sway of my shoulders. “No wakes. No chop. Just smooth traveling until we decide where we want to drop anchor for the evening.”

“How far does this water go?” she asked, her tone conversational, innocent. “Does it run all the way into the Gulf?”

“Thousands of miles of interconnected cuts, bays, and bayous,” I said, smiling at her curiosity. “You could spend three lifetimes out here and never cross the same inlet twice. That’s why we’re safe here, Truth. The noise of the city, the contracts, the warrants, the people who think they own you… none of that exists out here. We chose the right path.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t contradict the word we. She simply nodded, taking another bite of her breakfast while her eyes stayed fixed on Trumai in my arms.

“She likes when you hum,” Truth noted softly, reaching across the table to smooth the pink muslin over Tru’s toes. “Amai never hummed. He was always too loud. Always talking on the phone or shouting orders.”

Hearing her speak his name without reverence. Hearing her compare us and find him lacking, was the sweetest music I had ever heard.

“Amai was built for war, not for family,” I said gently, leaning closer so she could feel the steady warmth of my conviction. “A man like that only knows how to build walls out of fear. But we’re building something permanent, Truth. A real home. Built on love and care.”

Truth pulled her hand back, curling her fingers around her coffee mug, her expression calm and unreadable.

“Eat your strawberries,” she murmured, glancing at my plate. “They’ll get warm.”

I smiled, looking down at our daughter sleeping against my heart.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t fighting for scraps at Winston’s table while Amai feasted on the best. I wasn’t running clean operations while my brother soaked the city in blood. I was the head of my own house, sitting beside the woman I loved, and holding the child I was born to protect.

Everything had worked.

By early afternoon, the salon had transformed into a celebration.

On the credenza beneath the mirror, I arranged a small display: a delicate, four-inch white velvet cake with cream cheese frosting from a private bakery I’d had delivered during our last supply stop, surrounded by fresh white hydrangeas and a silver milestone card printed with the elegant script: Two Months of Pure Joy.