Semua Bab The Kane Contract: Vows of Venom: Bab 21 - Bab 30

I wake up in the midnight with my heart pounding like it's trying to escape my chest, the sheets tangled around my legs. They are always turning against me. The east wing is dark, the kind of dark that presses in on you, and the city lights from the window look like distant fires I can't reach. I sit up, breath coming in short gasps, and press a hand to my mouth because the taste of him is still there, Alexander, his lips, his tongue, the way he devoured me in that elevator like I was the only thing left in his world.Damn it, what have I done?I swing my legs over the side of the bed, barefoot on the cold floor, and try to steady myself. The room spins a little, not from the pregnancy, but from the memory that's playing on loop in my head: the power surge, the red emergency lights turning his face into something dangerous and beautiful, his hands on my thighs lifting me, my back against the wall, my legs wrapped around him like I was claiming him or surrendering or both. I can still

I’m standing on the balcony, barefoot, wrapped only in Alexander’s black shirt (the one I stole from his closet this morning because it smells like him and I’m too tired to pretend I don’t want it).The city is quiet for once, the storm from last week long gone, the sky clear enough to see stars if you squint past the light pollution. The air is cold, biting at my bare legs, but I don’t go inside.I can’t sleep.Not since the elevator.Not since the way his mouth tasted like storm and calm all at once, the way his hands gripped my thighs like he was afraid I’d vanish, the way I moaned into his kiss like I was starving.We haven’t talked about it.We’ve barely even talked at all.Breakfasts are silent. Hallways are minefields. The white roses keep appearing (ten now, one tucked under my pillow this morning like a cruel joke).I lean on the balcony railing, arms wrapped around myself, staring down at the street sixty-five floors below. The gates are lit by soft security lights, the Mayb

The morning after the gala.I wake up alone in the east wing. My body feels different.Heavy. Alive. Marked.I can still feel his hand low on my back during the waltz, fingers splayed possessively, thumb tracing slow circles that no camera caught but I felt in my bones. The way he pulled me closer with every turn, the way his breath ghosted my ear when he whispered, “The world needs to see what you look like when you’re mine.”I can still feel the way the world watched us dance and decided we were inevitable.I can still feel the way he looked at me when we got home, like he was one breath away from finishing what the elevator started.But he walked away. Again.I hate him for it.I hate myself for wanting him not to.I hate the way my body betrays me, nipples hardening under the sheets just from the memory, heat pooling between my legs like it's been waiting all night to remind me how close we came to snapping.I drag myself out of bed and stand in front of the mirror. The emerald go

I wake up to the sound of rain against the windows, soft and steady, like the city is crying for me.The east wing feels colder than usual, the bed too big, the sheets too clean.I’m back in my own wing. Back to my own bed after the safe word fight turned everything upside down and we both pretended it didn’t.After the baby kick yesterday, after the thirty seconds of his hand on mine and the way his eyes softened like he was seeing something fragile he didn’t want to break, I fled.I locked the door and cried until I fell asleep. Then I woke up alone.I hate that I checked his side of the bed first and hate that it was empty.I hate that I wanted it not to be.I hate that the memory of his palm over mine, warm and steady, waiting for the next flutter, is the only thing that kept me from screaming into the pillow all night.I hate that for those thirty seconds, I let myself believe we could be something real.Something soft. Something safe.And then he walked away with “Later,” like t

Livia’s PovThe flight back from Chicago is silent.But it’s a different kind of silence.Not the radioactive kind that’s been choking us for weeks.This one is softer.Full of everything we didn’t say on Oak Street.His hand is on my thigh the whole way, palm warm through my leggings, thumb tracing slow circles like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he stops.I don’t move it away.I don’t want to.I stare out the window at the clouds, the baby kicking gently like it’s reminding me this is real.This is real.He took me to his mother’s grave.He let me see the boy who lost everything and became a monster to make them pay. He held me while I cried for a woman I never met.And now his hand is on my thigh like it belongs there.I hate how much I like it.I hate how much I need it.I hate that I’m terrified of what happens when the year is up and the contract ends and he walks away for good.I hate that part of me wants him to stay.I hate that part of me is starting to believe he might.We lan