Chapter 9: Two Pink Lines and a Loaded Gun
721 Words
The door slammed so hard the chandelier trembled.
Czar didn’t put me down. Not yet.
He carried me through the dark house like a conqueror carrying war spoils, my wet dress soaking his shirt, my heart hammering against his chest like it wanted to break free and run.
Every guard we passed looked away. Smart men.
He took the stairs two at a time, kicked open the double doors to the master bedroom, and finally set me on my feet in the middle of the rug that cost more than most people’s houses.
For a second we just stared.
Rainwater dripped from his lashes. My lipstick was smeared across his mouth like blood.
Then he spoke, voice raw.
“Take the test out.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The pregnancy test. Take it out of your bag. I want to see it with my own eyes.”
My fingers shook as I opened the Hermès bag Amara had forced me to buy in Paris. The little white stick was wrapped in tissue at the bottom, two pink lines still screaming.
I held it out.
He took it like it was made of glass and gold. Turned it over. Read the result window three times. Then, so gently it broke something inside me, he pressed it to his lips.
“Eight weeks,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were wet. Actually wet.
“Eight weeks,” he repeated, voice cracking on the number. “That night in Santorini. The yacht. You remember?”
Of course I remembered. The night he’d tied my wrists with his tie, f****d me against the railing while the Aegean Sea roared beneath us, and whispered mine, mine, mine like a prayer and a threat.
I nodded.
He dropped to his knees again — second time in ten minutes — and laid his forehead against my stomach.
“I will burn the world down before I let anyone hurt you or this child,” he said against the wet fabric. “Do you understand me, Eden?”
I threaded my fingers through his hair. “I understand you’ll try.”
He looked up, eyes blazing. “Try? Baby, I don’t try. I succeed.”
Then he stood, cupped my face, and kissed me so tenderly I almost forgot who he was.
Almost.
When he pulled back, the gentleness was gone.
“Tomorrow you will marry me again. Properly. In a church. With five hundred witnesses who will all understand that if they ever look at you wrong, they die.”
“Czar—”
“No negotiations. You ran once. You’re pregnant now. That option is off the table.”
I laughed — hysterical, wet, furious. “You think a second wedding fixes this?”
“I think it reminds the world you’re untouchable.” He brushed my cheek with his thumb. “And it reminds you.”
I shoved at his chest. “I’m not property.”
“You’re the mother of my child,” he said simply. “That makes you the most dangerous thing on this planet. And the most protected.”
He stepped back, pulled out his phone, dialled one number.
“Prepare the cathedral. Tomorrow. 4 p.m. Tell the priest if he’s late I’ll burn his bible.”
He hung up.
I stared at him, mouth open.
He shrugged out of his soaked shirt, tossed it aside. “Now shower. You’re freezing. Then bed. Doctor comes at 7 a.m. — best obstetrician in West Africa. After that, dress fitting.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m efficient.”
He started unbuttoning my dress with practiced fingers, peeling the wet fabric off my shoulders, eyes never leaving mine.
“Czar, stop—”
“Never.” He dropped to his knees again — third time — and pressed his lips to the still-flat plane of my stomach. “Hello, little heir. Daddy’s home.”
Something inside me shattered and rebuilt itself at the same time.
I was terrified.
I was furious.
I was… safe. For the first time in years, I felt safe.
And that scared me more than anything.
Because safety with Czar Aslanov always came with a price.
And I had a feeling the bill was about to come due.
To be continued…
- Writer
