Chapter 144: Who’s Pregnant Here?
Gulp.....
The water slides down my throat—cool, reluctant, forced—like a truth I never asked to swallow. Some of it escapes, spilling past the seal of our lips, trailing in thin rivulets down my chin, down his, dripping onto the sheets between us.
I gasp sharply as Silas finally pulls away, air rushing into my lungs as though I’ve been drowning for hours. My hand flies to my mouth, wiping away the lingering wetness, smearing it across my lips and jaw as if I can scrub away the memory of his touch.
Silas watches me.
His gaze is steady, unflinching, carrying an unnerving calm that only feeds the storm raging inside me. His tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate, catching the moisture still clinging to his lower lip—a small, almost absentminded gesture that feels like a deliberate provocation.
Something inside me splinters.
Words are useless now. They’ve failed me. I don’t use them anymore. I use my hand.
I strike.
The punch lands solidly against his mouth, the impact jarring my knuckles. His head snaps to the side, and the corner of his lip splits open instantly.
Blood blooms—a thin, vivid crimson line that wells up along the corner of his mouth before trailing slowly down his chin, tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
A wound he deserves.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.
He just remains still, motionless, as though the blow was something he expected—something he accepted willingly. Slowly, his gaze returns to mine, calm and unwavering, his brown eyes holding no anger, no surprise. Only that infuriating patience that makes me want to hit him again.
Then his hand reaches for mine.
My fingers are still curled into a fist, trembling from the force of the punch. He gently pries them open, one by one, his touch impossibly tender against the fury radiating from my skin—a jarring contrast to the violence I just inflicted.
"Please," he murmurs, his voice soft, almost reverent, like a prayer. "Don’t hurt yourself like this."
Hurt myself?
The irony curdles in my stomach.
I wrench my hand away as though his touch burns. My fingers twist into the collar of his shirt, and I drive him down onto the bed with every ounce of rage I’ve been holding back. He lands with a muted thud, the sheets bunching beneath him.
I hover over him, my breath ragged, my eyes burning with a fury so immense it threatens to consume everything in its path. My pheromones flood the room, thick and suffocating, saturated with rage and violence—a venomous haze that clings to every surface, every breath, every heartbeat between us. The air grows heavy, almost impossible to breathe, and the taste of my anger coats my tongue like ash.
"I really want to tear you apart," I hiss, my voice low and razor-sharp.
My fingers find his throat.
"Piece by piece. I’m holding myself back right now. Don’t push me. Don’t raise my urge to kill you."
My nails press into the pale skin of his neck—not enough to steal his breath, but enough to leave crescent-shaped wounds where blood begins to bead. I want him to flinch. To wince. To show me that beneath that perfect, infuriating calm, he’s human.
Breakable. Just like everyone else.
He doesn’t.
He just lies there, still and silent, his brown eyes fixed on mine.Those eyes. I’ve looked into them a thousand times.
I’ve trusted them.
A knock shatters the moment.
The door opens, and Secretary Nick steps inside. His professional composure cracks the instant his gaze lands on us—me hovering over Silas, my hands wrapped around his throat, blood staining his lip, the tension between us crackling like a live wire.
He immediately lowers his eyes.
"Apologies for disturbing," he says, though his voice wavers ever so slightly. He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses with a nervous hand. "Boss... Mr. Ellis’s reports are ready. Dr. Alan is here personally. He’d like to examine Mr. Ellis again. He also said there’s something important he needs to discuss."
Silas’s gaze shifts. Slowly. Deliberately. From my face to Nick. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to.
The weight of his silence is enough to make Nick’s shoulders stiffen, his hands clasping a little tighter behind his back. He doesn’t dare look up.
"Send him in," Silas says.
His voice is low. Quiet.
Nick nods once, almost relieved, and slips out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
I push away from Silas, retreating until my back presses against the headboard, putting as much space between us as the bed allows.
Silas slowly sits up.
His eyes never leave me.
Blood still stains the corner of his mouth, and the shallow crescents my nails carved into his neck stand out against his pale skin. He makes no move to wipe either of them away.
I look elsewhere.
I need to leave.
I need to go back to Crystal Country, as far from him as I can get.
If I stay here any longer, I’ll lose control.
The mattress dips.
I feel him shift closer before I see it, his warmth slipping into the space I’d fought to put between us. His hand reaches for mine, slow and hesitant.
I slap it away.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" My voice is ice, each word honed into a blade. "Keep your filthy hands off me."
Another knock.
A single, deliberate rap, measured and unhurried.
The door opens, and an older man steps inside, sharp-featured and impeccably dressed, a leather medical case in one hand. His movements are unhurried.
His eyes sweep the room, taking in Silas’s split lip, the fresh marks on his neck, and the tension coiling between us like a living thing before settling on me. A small, knowing smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Hello, Ellis."
I stare at him.
Why does he speak to me like I’m a familiar face?
Like he’s known me for years?
He sets his case on the nearby couch and lowers himself into a seat with effortless ease, completely unbothered by the hostility rolling off me.
"I’m Dr. Alan," he says, his voice warm but professional. "The Stoneheart family’s personal physician... and a close friend of Silas’s father. I’ve known this kid since he was little."
He gestures toward Silas with a faint smile.
"You can call me Uncle, if you like."
I say nothing.
My fists clench in my lap, my nails biting into my palms.
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze sharp but not unkind. Then he leans back, folding his hands over one knee, his posture relaxed yet alert.
"Such intense negative pheromones," he murmurs, almost to himself, as though making a clinical observation. "They must be yours."
I neither confirm nor deny.
He’s an Alpha.
He sensed them the moment he walked in. He knows exactly what I’m feeling. What I’m radiating.
He adjusts his glasses, his calm gaze settling on mine.
"Calm down, kid. It’s not good for the baby’s health."
The words slice through my rage.
For a heartbeat, everything inside me goes still. The anger falters, giving way to something colder.
Confusion.
My brows knit together as my thoughts stumble over themselves, as if I’ve missed a step in the dark.
Baby’s health?
Who’s pregnant here?