บททั้งหมดของ Daddy's filthy little pet : บทที่ 211 - บทที่ 220

Rae’s POV I drew my knees up under the blanket and hugged them to my chest. The hoodie sleeve brushed my cheek and his scent hit me again—sandalwood, leather, him. I pressed my face into the fabric for one long, aching second before I forced myself to pull away.“I keep replaying it all,” I whispered. “The night at Obsidian when he didn’t even ask my real name but still made me feel owned in the best way. The morning after when he cornered me in the hallway and told me one night wasn’t enough. Every stolen second by the pool—his hand slipping under my bikini bottom while everyone else was inside, his mouth at my ear promising I was his and only his. He called me his filthy little pet. He said no one else would ever touch me. And I believed every word, Zara. Every single one.”She didn’t interrupt. She just listened—the way only someone who had held me through every heartbreak since tenth grade could.“Then Bianca appears with a positive pregnancy test and suddenly the timeline doesn

Rae’s POVI woke up on the couch around noon with puffy eyes and a headache that pulsed behind my temples like a second heartbeat. Zara was already in the kitchen, humming off-key to some pop song from our high-school playlist while she microwaved leftover pizza for “breakfast.” She took one look at my face and didn’t say a word about Killian. She just handed me a mug of coffee with extra cream and said, “Rule one of heartbreak headquarters: no crying before caffeine. Rule two: no thinking about him until at least episode three.”I managed a weak smile. “What’s rule three?”“Rule three is we pretend we’re in a cheesy rom-com montage until the pain stops being sharp and starts being dull. Now get up. We’re raiding the freezer.”We didn’t bother getting properly dressed. I stayed in her oversized band tee and a pair of her soft sleep shorts; she kept her tie-dye sleep shirt and added mismatched fuzzy socks. The apartment was small enough that everything felt cozy instead of cramped—t

Killian’s POVThe burner phone buzzed on the kitchen island like a live wire, jolting me out of the haze I’d been drifting in. I snatched it up before the second vibration, Marco’s name flashing across the cracked screen. It had been four days since I’d set him loose on the lab trail—four days of radio silence from Rae, four days of staring at my own unanswered texts like a pathetic fool. If this wasn’t a breakthrough, I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it together without doing something reckless.“Talk,” I barked, skipping the pleasantries.Marco’s voice came through low and measured, the kind of tone that said he had something but not everything. “Got a hit on the lab tech. Name’s Dr. Harlan Elias Grant. Works out of that fancy private clinic Bianca used—downtown, the one with the glass facade and overpriced valet. He signed off on the paternity results himself. But get this: he’s got a gambling problem. Owes some bookies downtown about fifty grand. And guess who wired

Killian’s POVThe phone was still pressed to my ear when her voice cracked on the other end.“Killian—It’s Zara. She—she just collapsed. She’s not waking up. I called 911 but… please. Come. Now. I can’t—I can’t do this by myself.”.“I’m already in the car,” I said, already moving. Keys. Door. Stairs. “Stay on the line. Talk to me, kitten. What happened?”I hit the garage at a run, phone wedged between shoulder and ear while I yanked the driver’s door open.“We were eating breakfast,” Rae sobbed. “Pancakes. Laughing. Then she went pale—stood up—and just… dropped. I caught her head but she’s out cold. Pulse is there but weak. Paramedics are coming but—”“Keep checking her breathing. Talk to her. She can hear you.” I slammed the door, engine roaring to life. “I’m four minutes out.”Sirens wailed in the background on her end. “They’re close now. I hear them.”“Good. When they get there, tell them she’s been having pain in her right side for days—said it was cramps but it wasn’t. Tell them

Rae’s POVThe hospital room smelled like antiseptic and wilted flowers. Zara looked tiny in the bed—pale skin against white sheets, an IV line taped to the back of her hand, monitors beeping softly like a metronome counting down something I refused to think about.I pushed the door open slowly. She was awake, propped up a little, and the second she saw me her face lit up with that weak, stubborn smile she always used when she was trying to pretend everything was fine.“Hey, trouble,” she croaked. “Took you long enough.”I crossed the room in three steps and stopped at the side of the bed. My hands were shaking so bad I had to grip the rail.“Cancer?” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “And you said cramps? That’s what you told me? Cramps?”Zara’s smile faltered, but only for a second. She reached for my hand. I let her take it.“Rae—”“Don’t ‘Rae’ me.” Tears were already burning behind my eyes. “Stage III ovarian cancer. Advanced. You’ve known for months. Months, Zara. And you le