Lahat ng Kabanata ng Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Kabanata 91 - Kabanata 100

The news station was too hot. Police sirens wailed in the distance before we even hit the exit ramp.We diverted.Now, we are deep beneath the city, in the abandoned maintenance tunnels of the old brewery district.The air here is thick, tasting of yeast, rust, and damp earth. Water drips from the curved brick ceiling, splashing into puddles of black sludge that coat the floor. It’s cold—a bone-deep chill that seeps through my leather jacket and settles in my marrow.Drakon kills the flashlight."We stop here," he whispers. His voice echoes softly, ghostly in the dark.I slide down the wall, my legs giving out. I sit on a dry patch of concrete, pulling my knees to my chest. My hands are still shaking from the ride, from the adrenaline, from the weight of the papers pressed against my ribs.Drakon is beside me instantly."Thalia?"He fumbles in the dark. A click, and a small penlight flares to life. He keeps the beam low, shielding it with his hand so it doesn't carry down the tunnel.

The lodge smells of pine resin, woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of gun oil.It sits on a ridge overlooking a valley of black trees, miles from the nearest paved road. Old Man Petros built it as a hideout for when the law got too close in the 80s. Now, it’s a refugee camp for the broken remnants of the Wolves.I sit on the worn plaid couch, wrapping a heavy wool blanket around my shoulders. The fire in the stone hearth crackles, but it doesn't chase away the chill in the room.Drakon sits at the dining table.He has stripped down to his black undershirt. His arms are covered in grease and soot. He has disassembled every weapon we have—the shotguns, the Glocks, the assault rifles recovered from the raid.Click. Snap. Slide.The sound is rhythmic. Hypnotic.He scrubs the firing pins with a toothbrush. He runs oil rags through the barrels. He puts them back together, then strips them down again.He hasn't looked at me in three hours.He hasn't looked at my stomach since we left the tunne

The spotlight burns the back of my neck."Hold on!" Drakon screams over the roar of the rotor blades.He wrenches the handlebars hard to the left. The Ducati skids on the wet pine needles, the rear tire sliding out. We aren't riding anymore; we are falling with style.The bike goes down.We hit the dirt. Drakon takes the brunt of it, curling around me, shielding my body with his own as we tumble through the underbrush. Branches whip my face. Mud fills my mouth.We slide to a stop against the trunk of a massive spruce tree.Above us, the helicopter roars, the searchlight sweeping the canopy. It misses us by feet, illuminating the ferns to our right in blinding white."Move," Drakon hisses, dragging me up. "Leave the bike. The heat signature will draw them."He grabs my hand. We run.We are deep in the foothills now. The terrain is rough—roots, rocks, slippery clay. I stumble, but Drakon hauls me forward, his grip bruising."Where are we going?" I gasp."The creek," he says. "Water mask

The hammer clicks back.But the trigger doesn't fall.Nikos stands there, the gold gun trembling in his hand, aimed squarely at his father’s chest. His face is a mask of sweat and tears, twisted by a lifetime of manipulation."Do it," I whisper. "End him."Kyros doesn't flinch. He doesn't beg. He looks at the barrel of the gun, then up at his son’s eyes.He sighs. It’s a sound of profound boredom."You never had the stomach for the wet work, Nikos," Kyros says. "That's why I had to do everything for you.""I'm killing you," Nikos stammers. "I'm taking the crown.""You're holding a paperweight."Kyros moves. Fast. Faster than an old man with a cane should be able to move.He swings the cane. The heavy silver skull handle cracks against Nikos’s wrist.SNAP.Nikos screams, dropping the gun. It lands in the mud with a wet plop.Kyros doesn't stop. He backhands Nikos across the face. The sound is like a whip crack. Nikos spins, losing his footing on the slick ground, and collapses into the

The needle slides into my arm.I watch the dark red blood fill the vial. It swirls, thick and heavy, carrying the answer to the question that has torn our world apart.Is it a Wolf? Or is it a Reaper?"That's enough," Dr. Vane says softly. He pulls the needle out and presses a cotton ball to the crook of my elbow. "Hold that."I press down. My arm feels light, floaty. The drugs they gave me to stop the contractions are heavy, dragging my eyelids down, but I fight the sleep. I can't sleep. Not until I know."The labor?" Drakon asks. He’s standing by the window, peeking through the blinds at the street below. He hasn't holstered his gun since we arrived."Halted," Vane says, labeling the vial with a sharpie. Thalia Mikos. Paternity Test. "For now. Her cervix is closed. The cramping has stopped. But she is high risk, Drakon. Extremely high risk. She needs bed rest. No stress. No running from explosions."Drakon lets out a short, humorless laugh. "I'll do my best.""How long?" I ask, my v