Page 84 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I still leaned down until my chin was three inches from the bassinet mattress, holding my own breath so I could catch the tiny, whistling puff of hers.

She was swaddled in a pink muslin wrap with little gold crescent moons on it. Her fists were tucked under her chin, her mouth open just a sliver. She didn’t move.

My chest hitched. I reached two fingers out, moving slow enough to avoid a tripwire, and nudged the sole of her foot through the cloth.

Trumai let out a sharp, offended squeak and kicked her leg.

“Amai Landry.”

Truth’s voice cut through the dark from the king-sized bed behind me, dry as dust and completely exhausted.

I didn’t turn around. “She was laying too still.”

“She was asleep, Amai.”

“Her chest wasn’t rising the way it was ten minutes ago.”

The sheets rustled. Truth pushed herself up against the headboard, rubbing both eyes with the heels of her hands. Her hair was tied in a silk scarf, her nursing tank pulled loose on one side where she’d fed Trumai barely an hour ago. She looked tired down to her bones, but the glare she hit me with through the dim lamp light had enough heat to singe my eyebrows.

“If you poke that baby one more time and wake her up after I just spent forty-five minutes walking the floor with her colic, I swear to God I am revoking your daddy privileges for the next forty-eight hours.”

“You can’t revoke my privileges,” I said, keeping my voice down to a harsh whisper. “I pay the mortgage.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the mortgage. I carried that child for nine months and pushed her out in twelve hours. I will lock you out of this bedroom and put Priest at the door to enforce it.”

“Priest works for me.”

“Priest knows who actually runs this house,” she shot back, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress and reaching for her water bottle. “Now step away from the crib before she starts crying again.”

I stood up straight, feeling the pull in my lower back, but I didn’t move away from the bassinet. I just stared down at Tru’s little round face. She had Truth’s caramel skin and my nose, with a full head of thick black curls that curled tighter every time we washed them. Looking at her did something strange to my ribs, like somebody was reaching inside my chest and squeezing everything together until I couldn’t catch a full breath.

“She sneezed three times before we went to bed,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “I called Dr. Broussard’s on-call service at midnight.”

Truth stopped with the water bottle halfway to her mouth. She stared at me in disbelief. “You called the pediatrician because a newborn sneezed?”

“Three times in a row, Truth. She could be coming down with something.”

“That is dust, you paranoid lunatic! Newborns clear their nasal passages by sneezing! The doctor told you that at the four-day checkup!”

“The doctor looked twelve years old,” I said flatly. “I don’t trust a nigga with a medical degree who looks like he just got his learner’s permit.”

Truth buried her face in her hands and let out a long, muffled groan. “Lord, give me strength before I smother this man with a memory foam pillow.”

By noon the next day, the situation hadn’t improved.

I was downstairs in the kitchen, pacing between the marble island and the double ovens with my phone pressed to my ear while Trumai slept in a portable lounger on the kitchen table. I had one hand resting lightly on the edge of the lounger, rocking it every three seconds on instinct.

“Look, I understand what the discharge papers say,” I told the nurse on the other end of the line, keeping my tone clipped. “I’m asking why her stool has a greenish tint to it today when yesterday it was yellow mustard. Is that an infection? Because I can have a private courier bring a sample over there in twenty minutes. I shouldn’t have to do y’all job, but here we are.”

From the doorway to the back patio, the screen door swung open with a bang.

“If you send that poor clinic a Tupperware full of baby shit, Amai, I’m going to lose my shit.”

Raven walked in first, wearing high-waisted jeans, a cropped tank, and oversized sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. Right behind her came Priest, carrying two bags of groceries from the market.

I froze, the phone still glued to my ear.

Priest set the grocery bags on the counter and caught my eye. The nigga had on a fresh linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up—not his usual black tactical gear, not a suit, but an actual casual shirt that somebody had ironed. And when he stepped past Raven to put a gallon of whole milk in the fridge, his hand brushed the small of her back in a way that wasn’t accidental.