Pregnant With My Father-In-Law’s Baby

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Raymond’s POV

The rain had stopped by three in the morning, leaving behind a slick, reflective sheen on the stone balustrade of the balcony. The scent of ozone, wet earth, and salt sea air drifted through the open glass doors, cutting through the heavy, dark oak scent of my private study.

On the mahogany desk behind me, the tablet lay face up. The digital profile remained illuminated, casting a soft, blue glow against the high ceilings.

Fugitive Name: Amara.

Status: Former Luna of the Silver Moon Pack.

Ex-Wife of Alpha Michael.

I took a slow drag from a thin cigar, the amber ember glowing in the dim light before I let the gray smoke curl out into the night air. My mind was sharp, methodical, cold—the way it always became when a war was brewing on the horizon.

Michael.

My mind dragged up the image of my son. The last time I had looked Michael in the eye was six years ago in the grand pavilion of the Northern Council. Even then, his aura was poisoned by ambition—a young wolf intoxicated by titles, eager to expand borders through intimidation rather than honor. He had looked at my legacy, at the ancient bloodline of the Apex line, and declared my methods archaic. He had walked away to build his own kingdom, boasting that he would outshine the father who had raised him.

And now, six years later, his dirt had washed up directly onto my doorstep.

I turned back into the bedroom, my heavy boots silent against the thick Persian rug.

Amara lay still in the center of the grand mahogany bed, swallowed by the dark silk sheets. The IV drip had done its job; the pale, sickly ash color of her skin had been replaced by a soft, warm peach. Her breathing was steady now, deep and rhythmic, free of the agonizing gasp that had torn through her chest in that filthy alleyway.

I pulled up a leather armchair to the side of the mattress, sitting down and resting my elbows on my knees. I folded my hands, my silver eyes tracing every line of her sleeping face.

She wasn't just a fragile runaway who had stumbled into a hotel lounge in Florence looking for a drink and an escape. She was the woman Michael had bound to his side, humiliated, and ultimately discarded.

A sharp, dark instinct flared deep within my chest, making my inner beast lift its heavy head. The thought of Michael’s harsh hands on her skin, the thought of his arrogant voice tearing down her spirit until she was forced to flee across an entire ocean just to draw a breath—it ignited a cold, methodical rage inside me.

Michael believed his father was a ghost, a forgotten shadow lingering in the old territories. When he had severed ties with my court, he had told his council, his pack, and apparently his own wife, that the old Alpha was dead and gone—a convenient lie to solidify his own unquestioned reign as the Supreme Alpha of the Silver Moon. He had buried my name to build his own pedestal.

He had no idea his buried past was sitting beside the woman he was hunting.

My phone hummed softly on the low side table. I picked it up before the vibration could break the quiet rhythm of the room. It was Marcus, my head of security.

"Speak," I said, my voice barely above a gravelly whisper.

"The alley is clean, Alpha," Marcus reported, his tone crisp through the encrypted line. "The two Silver Moon enforcers have been incinerated. Their tactical gear, tracking devices, and vehicle were broken down and dissolved in the furnace at the docks. As far as the Northern Council is concerned, those two men vanished into thin air the moment they crossed the Italian border."

"Good," I replied coldly. "What about the Silver Moon border patrols?"

"Michael has put a subtle, high-priority flag on international transit hubs, but he is keeping it quiet," Marcus explained. "He hasn't alerted the Global Alpha Syndicate yet. He’s trying to catch her quietly to avoid the embarrassment of his former Luna escaping his territory. But with those two enforcers missing, he will realize something intervened within forty-eight hours."

"Let him wonder," I said, my gaze resting on Amara’s delicate hand resting against the white duvet. "Double the sentries along the perimeter of the estate. No aircraft enters the private airstrip without my personal clearance. I want air defense on active standby."

"Understood, Alpha. And the girl?" Marcus hesitated slightly. "If Alpha Michael tracks her to the estate..."

"Michael doesn't exist within forty miles of this coast," I cut him off, my tone dropping into a dangerous, absolute register. "If a single Silver Moon foot soldier sets foot on this soil, shoot them where they stand. We are done playing politics with boys who think they are kings."

"Yes, Alpha."

I ended the call, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

The quiet returned to the room, heavy and pregnant with unsaid truths. I leaned back into the armchair, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Amara’s chest.

She didn't know who I was. To her, I was just "Mr. X"—a dangerous, nameless benefactor who had shared her bed for one night in a haze of Scotch and mutual desperation, and who had subsequently dragged her out of the rain before she could bleed out on the pavement. She knew I had power; she had seen the way my guards bowed, the way I had snapped a warrior's neck without an inch of hesitation. But she had no concept of the bloodline that connected us. She had no idea that the man whose shirt she had clutched in the back of the SUV was the very origin of the nightmare she was running from.

I reached out, my large, calloused thumb gently brushing a stray strand of ginger-copper hair away from her temple. She stirred slightly at the touch, a faint sigh escaping her lips, but she didn't wake.

You survived him, I thought, my jaw tightening as I looked down at the soft curve of her throat. You survived my son. But you won't ever have to run from him again.

Hours bled into one another as the storm outside completely died away. The dark indigo sky slowly softened into a pale, hazy violet over the Mediterranean horizon. Golden light began to bleed through the sheer curtains, painting long, warm slashes across the dark wood furniture and the foot of the bed.

Around six in the morning, the shift happened.

Amara’s fingers twitched against the silk sheets. A faint, soft groan broke from her throat as her body began to pull itself up from the deep, drug-induced sleep. Her long eyelashes fluttered, casting small shadows over her cheekbones as she tried to fight off the heavy fog of the sedatives.

I didn't move. I remained seated in the leather armchair beside her, my posture relaxed, my hands loosely clasped over my knee, watching her intently.

She turned her head slowly, her brow furrowing in confusion as her senses began to return. The soft scent of lavender, fresh linens, and dark wood hit her first. Then, her hazel eyes slowly opened.

For a few seconds, she stared blankly up at the high, carved wooden ceiling, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the balcony doors. Her pupils dilated as her mind raced to connect the fragmented memories of the night before—the cold rain, the confrontation in the dark alleyway, the flash of blood, and the terrifying, overwhelming warmth of the man who had lifted her out of the mud.

She shifted, trying to push herself up on her elbows.

"Careful," I murmured softly, my voice breaking the silence of the room.

Amara gasped, her head snapping toward the sound. She pulled the duvet up to her collarbone in an instinctive, defensive movement, her hazel eyes wide with a mix of shock and lingering trauma.

"You..." she breathed out, her voice rough and raspy from disuse.

"Drink this," I said quietly, reaching for a crystal glass of water resting on the side table. I leaned forward, holding it out toward her.

She looked at the glass, then up at my face. She took in my unbuttoned dark shirt, the faint shadow of stubble along my jaw, and the intense, unyielding silver of my eyes. Her hand trembled as she reached out, her small, pale fingers brushing against mine as she took the glass. The brief contact sent a sharp, subtle spark through my skin—a lingering echo of the power that had flared between us three weeks ago.

She took a small, eager sip, cooling her parched throat, before holding the glass with both hands, resting it in her lap. Her eyes darted around the luxurious, massive suite, taking in the grand archways, the expensive art, and the heavy security doors.

"Where... where am I?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "The alley... those men..."

"You are at my primary estate," I answered smoothly, my tone calm and steady to keep her heart rate down. "The men from the alley are gone. They will never bother you again."

She swallowed hard, a flicker of dark memory passing behind her eyes. "You killed them. You... you snapped his neck."

"They laid hands on you," I said simply, offering no apology, no justification. "In my territory, that is a death sentence."

Amara stared at me, her chest heaving slightly under the heavy covers. "I don't even know who you are. You told me your name was Raymond, but... who are you really? Normal men don't have private security forces. They don't execute pack warriors in back alleys."

"I never claimed to be a normal man, little bird," I replied softly, my silver eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

She looked down at her hands, her knuckles white around the glass of water. "I need to leave," she whispered, a sudden wave of panic rising in her voice as her survival instincts reasserted themselves. "My medicine was crushed. If they tracked me to Florence, they'll find this place. I can't stay here. I can't drag you into this."

"Your medicine has already been replaced," I said, pointing toward a small amber bottle sitting beside her bed. "My physician administered a high-grade nutrient IV while you slept. Your bleeding has stopped, and your vitals are stable. You aren't dragging anyone into anything, Amara."

She froze instantly at the sound of her name.

The glass in her hands shook so violently the water sloshed over the rim. Her head snapped up, her face draining of what little color it had regained.

"What... what did you just call me?" she whispered, horror lacing her tone.

"Amara," I repeated smoothly, my voice dipping into a low, velvet tone as I leaned closer, resting my hand on the edge of the mattress. "Former Luna of the Silver Moon Pack. The woman who fled across the Atlantic three weeks ago to escape a toxic bond."

"No..." she gasped, scrambling backward against the headboard, her eyes wide with absolute, terrifying panic. "How do you know that name? Who gave you that name? Did he hire you? Is this a trap?"

"No one hired me," I said calmly, watching her react. "No one even knows I have you."

"Then how do you know all of this?!" she cried out, her voice cracking as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

I stood up slowly, my towering frame blocking out the warm morning light streaming through the window. Amara pressed herself deeper into the pillows, looking up at me like a cornered, terrified stray, expecting the dark hammer of another Alpha's dominance to fall upon her.

Instead, I stepped right up to the edge of the bed, reached down, and gently took the shaking glass of water from her hands, placing it safely on the nightstand.

I looked down into her tear-streaked face, taking in every line of fear, pain, and resilience that made up the woman sitting before me. She was safe now, even if she didn't fully realize the extent of the fortress protecting her.

I extended my large, open hand toward her, waiting.

"Come home with me."