Pregnant With My Father-In-Law’s Baby

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Amara’s POV

The neon lights of the wine bar faded into the background, replaced by the heavy, humid air of the night as he guided me out into the dark. I was so tipsy, the world spinning in soft, golden-blurred edges, but the solid weight of his arm around my waist kept me grounded. I didn't care where we were going. For six years with Michael, intimacy had been a cold, calculated duty—a mechanical chore meant to produce an heir, stripped of all warmth. Especially during the pregnancy, I had been treated like a fragile vase, then abandoned. I had forgotten what it felt like to be touched not as a political asset, but as a living, breathing woman.

Tonight, I promised myself I would just have fun. I deserved to forget the grief, the rejection, and the ashes left behind in America.

When the sleek black car pulled up to his private estate, the sheer scale of the place barely registered through my hazy vision. All I knew was the scent of him—expensive leather, dark chocolate, and a terrifyingly dominant alpha aura that made my inner wolf, who had been hiding in the dark, suddenly lift her head and purr.

He carried me through the grand, marble-lined halls, his footsteps echoing softly against the high ceilings until we reached his master bedroom. The room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a crackling fireplace, casting long shadows across a massive bed lined with dark silk sheets.

"Easy, piccola," his deep, rich baritone rumbled, the vibration vibrating right through my chest.

Despite his overwhelming power, he was incredibly gentle as he lowered me onto the mattress. The contrast between his rugged, scarred hands and the tenderness with which he framed my face made a soft whimper escape my lips. He leaned over me, trapping me beneath the vast expanse of his chest.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his silver-gray eyes flashing with a possessive, predatory light.

When his lips met mine, it wasn't just sweet—it was an intense, grounding force. He tasted like the rich, blood-red wine we had shared at the bar, his tongue parting my lips with a slow, deliberate hunger. My fingers tangled deep into the thick, dark hair at the back of his neck, my thumbs tracing the striking silver-white streaks at his temples. He let out a low, gravelly growl against my mouth, the sound sending a violent jolt of heat straight to my lower belly.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to strip away the remnants of our clothes. When his shirt fell to the floor, the firelight illuminated the hard, marble-chiseled expanse of his chest and arms, completely covered in intricate, dark tattoos that twined up his neck and spilled over his shoulders.

He paused, reaching over to the nightstand where a fresh bottle of deep Italian red wine sat open, alongside two crystal glasses. He didn't pour it into the glass. Instead, he lifted the bottle, taking a slow, heavy swallow, his silver eyes never breaking contact with mine.

A wicked, breathless smile tugged at my lips. "Are you going to share?" I slurred slightly, my voice dripping with a shameless, uninhibited need I hadn't felt in a lifetime.

"Always, piccola," he murmured, his voice tight with growing restraint.

He leaned down, hovering just inches above me. Slowly, he tilted the bottle, letting a thin, warm stream of the dark red wine trickle down over my collarbone, pooling in the dip of my chest and tracing the curve of my ribs. The contrast of the cool liquid against my flushed, burning skin made me gasp, my back arching off the silk sheets.

Before I could breathe, his hot tongue followed the path of the wine. He drank from my skin, his lips trailing down my throat, lapping up the sweet, dark alcohol with a slow, agonizing perfection that made me writhe beneath him. The heat between us was suffocating, a wild storm of friction and raw chemistry.

"You're beautiful," he growled against my skin, his large hands anchoring my hips down, pinning me to the bed with an effortless display of dominance. He didn't rush. He took his time, worshiping every inch of my body, tasting the wine off my skin until I was begging, my hands frantically searching for purchase.

My hands wrapped around his broad shoulders, my nails sinking deep into the smooth skin of his back, piercing right into the dark ink of his tattoos. I pulled him closer, needing his weight, needing the solid reality of him to drown out the ghosts of my past. Every time he moved against me, a shockwave of electricity shot up my spine, pulling me further into a golden, euphoric haze.

He guided me through the peak of the heat with a heavy, unyielding rhythm, his silver eyes locked onto mine, demanding all of me. I moaned into his mouth, completely lost in the protective, intoxicating sanctuary of his arms. For the first time in a six-year prison sentence, I felt entirely safe in the dark.

The morning light shattered the illusion.

I woke up with a sharp, blinding ache throbbing behind my eyes. The blinding Mediterranean sun cut through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the vast, unfamiliar room. Out of pure habit, I rolled over, stretching my arm across the mattress, expecting to feel the cold, empty expanse of the bed I used to share with Michael.

My fingers brushed against premium, cool silk sheets, and the memories of the night before rushed back in a violent, dizzying wave. The wine bar. The wine poured over my skin. The intense, protective warmth of a stranger's tattooed arms.

I bolted upright, clutching the heavy duvet to my bare chest as I looked around the massive, sun-drenched room.

The bed beside me was empty. The sheets were already cooling.

He wasn't there.

A sudden, sharp pang of reality hit my chest. The silver-eyed alpha was gone, leaving me completely alone in a magnificent, foreign estate with nothing but a hangover and the lingering, dominant scent of dark chocolate and expensive leather woven deep into my skin.