Page 117 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I wanted him to understand where he was. What was coming.

I stepped out of the car and adjusted my uniform, checking my reflection in the tinted window. Blue shirt, blue pants, nothing that would draw attention. I looked like an employee. And Priest had already paid the right people off to look the other way.

I walked across the skybridge into the main hospital building. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that sterile white glow that made everyone look half-dead. A nurse passed me in the hallway, her scrubs wrinkled, her eyes glazed with exhaustion. She didn’t look at me twice.

Nobody ever did.

I took the elevator to the third floor and stepped out into a corridor that smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Room 312 was at the end of the hall, past the nurses’ station where two women sat hunched over computers, their attention buried in charts and medication logs.

I walked past them without slowing. Confident. Purposeful. Like I belonged.

The door to 312 was cracked open, and the guard was gone. I pushed it wider and stepped inside, closing it softly behind me.

Kaisen was awake.

He lay in the hospital bed, propped up slightly, his left side bandaged where I’d put the blade between his ribs. His face was pale, drawn, but his eyes—those eyes were sharp. Alert. Dangerous.

He saw me, and his hand moved immediately toward the nurse call button clipped to the bed rail.

I crossed the room in two strides and snatched it from his grip, yanking the cord from the wall in one smooth motion.

“Don’t,” I said quietly.

Kaisen’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He just stared at me with that same unhinged intensity he’d had since we were kids—the look that said he’d burn the world down just to watch me choke on the smoke.

“You really think you can walk in here and finish what you started?” His voice was rough, strained from pain, but there wasno fear in it. Just venom. “You think I’m scared of you? Nigga, you’s a bitch!”

I pulled the chair from the corner and sat down beside his bed, leaning back like we were having a casual conversation. Like I hadn’t stabbed him two days ago. Like I wasn’t about to take him somewhere he’d never come back from.

“You should be,” I said. “And I got yo’ bitch, nigga.”

He laughed—a short, bitter sound that turned into a wince as the movement pulled at his stitches. “Fuck you, Amai. You’ve been trying to kill me since we were kids.”

“Not trying,” I corrected. “I almost succeeded once. Remember?”

His expression shifted. Just slightly. A flicker of something old and primal crossing his face before he locked it down.

But I saw it.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, watching him. “You took my Joker action figure. The one Dad gave me for my birthday. You said it was yours. That I didn’t deserve it.”

Kaisen’s breathing changed. Shallow. Controlled.

“I told you to give it back,” I continued, my voice low, steady. “You laughed at me. Called me a pussy. Said I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“I was eight,” Kaisen said, but his voice had lost some of its edge.

“We were at the lake,” I said. “You were standing at the edge of the dock, holding my shit, taunting me. And I walked up behind you and pushed.”

His hand gripped the bed rail. Knuckles looked as if they’d break skin at any moment.

“You went under,” I said. “And I held you there.”

The room was silent except for the beep of the heart monitor and the hum of the ventilation system.

“I held you under until you stopped fighting,” I said. “Until your body went limp. Until I was sure you were gone.”

Kaisen’s chest rose and fell faster now. His eyes locked on mine, and I saw it—the terror he’d buried for decades. The memory of drowning. Of helplessness. Of knowing his own brother wanted him dead.