Page 142 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

Kaisen went completely still.

The tablet in his left hand lowered two inches. His breath caught in his throat, and for a fraction of a second, the master strategist who had planned this entire kidnapping vanished, replaced by a man struck dumb by his own wildest fantasy coming true.

“Truth…” he began, his voice dropping into a thick, unsteady register. “Are you sure?”

“The water is too quiet out here,” I whispered, looking up at him through my lashes. “Every time the boat shifts against the mud, I wake up thinking someone is coming through the door. I just… I need to feel safe. I need someone next to me.”

He stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind him with a soft, decisive click.

“You are safe,” he said, crossing the room until he stood directly in front of me. His hands reached up, hesitating, before cupping my elbows with reverent gentleness. “I’m right here. You don’t ever have to be afraid again.”

“Just sleeping,” I murmured quickly, setting the boundary with a delicate touch of apprehension. “I’m not… I’m still healing, Kaisen. My body, my mind… everything is still raw.”

“Of course,” he said immediately, shaking his head as if the very thought of pressuring me were an insult to his love. “Of course, Truth. Real love doesn’t rush. We have the rest of our lives. I’m just grateful you’re finally letting me protect you.”

He walked over to the dresser, setting his tablet and notebook down.

I watched him from the corner of my eye.

He unclipped a heavy ring of brass and steel keys from his belt loop and placed it squarely on the nightstand beside his phone, sliding both underneath the face of his watch.

Three brass keys. Two flat silver master keys. One magnetic keycard.

He switched off the overhead lights, leaving only the soft, amber glow of the nursery nightlight near the crib.

We climbed into the massive king bed.

The mattress was plush, the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton cool against my bare arms. Kaisen lay on his back, leaving a respectful foot of space between us. After a few minutes, he turned onto his side, reaching an arm across the empty space to rest his hand gently on my waist, pulling me an inch closer until the warmth of his chest pressed against my back.

His touch sent a jolt of pure revulsion down my spine.

My stomach heaved. The urge to whip around, drive my thumbs into his windpipe, and tear his throat out with my teeth burned so hot in my chest that I felt dizzy.

Breathe, I commanded myself, staring straight ahead at the dark wood grain of the headboard. Slow your pulse. Count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four.

I let my body sink into the mattress, forcing every muscle in my back and shoulders to go completely limp. I allowed him to hold me, playing the part of the weary, broken woman seeking comfort in the dark.

Kaisen let out a long, shuddering sigh against the back of my neck—the sound of total, unadulterated relief.

“I love you, Truth,” he whispered into the stillness of the room. “I’m going to give you and Tru the life you were always supposed to have.”

I didn’t answer. I just exhaled slowly, mimicking the shallow, rhythmic breathing of someone drifting toward sleep.

Minutes dragged into an hour.

Beside me, I tracked every shift in his physiology with clinical precision.

At twenty minutes, his breathing deepened, dropping into a slow, heavy pattern.

At thirty-five minutes, the small involuntary muscle spasms started in his right leg—the lingering nerve damage from the bullet Amai had put through his side months ago.

At forty-five minutes, his jaw slackened, and he began to mutter in his sleep. Broken, disjointed fragments slipping out of his subconscious: “…the ledger… Winston don’t know shit… Sabine channel… three miles south of the cut… my son… she’s mine…”

I absorbed every word, carving the names and locations into my memory.

Then, I tested his reflexes.