Semua Bab Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Bab 11 - Bab 20

"I'm yours," I whisper.It’s a surrender. A white flag waving in the dark.Drakon doesn't smile. He nods, once. A king accepting tribute.He pushes my knees wider, until my inner thighs strain. The air is cool against my exposed skin, but his gaze burns hot enough to blister.He doesn't kiss me again. He moves down.His beard grazes my stomach, rough as sandpaper. I shiver, my fingers twisting into the sheets. He stops at the apex of my thighs. He inhales deeply, smelling me."Sweet," he murmurs. "And soaked."He grips my hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, anchoring me. Then, he lowers his head.His tongue finds me.My back arches off the mattress. A gasp tears from my throat, loud and unbidden.He isn't gentle. He isn't tentative. He kisses me there with the same starving intensity he had on my mouth. Broad strokes. Heavy pressure.It’s overwhelming.Nikos... Nikos never did this. Not really. He was quick, selfish. He treated it like a chore or a prelude to what he wanted.Dra

The gates of the compound roll back with a shriek of rusted metal.Drakon doesn't slow down. He drives the black SUV straight through, parking right in front of the main doors. He kills the engine.Silence fills the cab."Ready?" he asks. He doesn't look at me. He’s scanning the perimeter, his eyes moving constantly."No.""Good. Fear keeps you sharp."He opens his door and steps out. I fumble for the handle, my fingers slipping on the plastic. I take a breath that smells of exhaust and pine, then push the door open.My boots hit the gravel.Drakon is there instantly. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. His grip is iron. It’s not a hug. It’s a clamp."Head up," he murmurs. "Eyes front. You don't look at the ground. You look them in the eye."We walk toward the steel doors.The bass of rock music thumps through the walls, vibrating in the soles of my feet. I can hear laughter, the clink of glass, the roar of a dozen conversations.Drakon kicks the door open.The

"Down!"Markos doesn't ask. He tackles me.His shoulder hits my midsection like a battering ram. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp whoosh. We hit the floorboards hard, his heavy frame shielding mine just as the window explodes.CRASH.Glass showers the room.Then comes the heat.A Molotov cocktail smashes against the back bar. The bottle shatters, and the gasoline ignites instantly.FWOOM.A wall of orange fire roars to life, climbing the liquor shelves. Bottles burst in the heat—vodka, whiskey, gin—feeding the inferno. The smell is instantaneous and choking. Burning alcohol. Melting plastic. Fear."Move!" Markos screams in my ear. He hauls me up by my jacket.I scramble to my feet, coughing. The smoke is already thick, a black oily cloud rolling across the ceiling.Another crash. Another bottle flying through the darkness. It smashes near the pool table, setting the felt ablaze."They're burning us out!" a prospect yells.Gunfire erupts outside. Pop-pop-pop. Automatic weapons.Bulle

The ride back to the cabin is a blur of speed and darkness.Drakon drives like a man possessed. He leans the bike so low on the curves that the pegs scrape sparks from the asphalt. The wind tears at my clothes, whipping my hair into a frenzy, but I don't feel the cold.I still feel the kick of the gun in my hand.We skid to a halt in the gravel driveway. The silence of the woods rushes in to fill the void left by the engine, but it’s not peaceful. It’s heavy. Waiting.Drakon is off the bike before the kickstand is fully down. He grabs my hand, hauling me toward the front door. His grip is tight, painful. He’s vibrating with adrenaline—a live wire looking for a ground.He unlocks the door with jerky movements. Click. Click. Thud.He shoves me inside and slams the door, throwing the deadbolt.He turns to me.In the harsh light of the entryway, we look like monsters. My shirt is smeared with soot. There is dried blood—the Reaper’s blood—splattered across my cheek and woven into my hair.

Drakon finds me on the roof of the clubhouse an hour later.The sun is setting, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. I’m leaning against the parapet, staring at the razor wire topping the compound walls. My hands are still cold, even though the evening air is warm.I hear his boots on the gravel. I don't turn around."You shouldn't be up here alone," he says. His voice is rough, tired."I'm not alone," I say, pointing to the guard tower where a prospect is watching us with a rifle. "And I needed air. The basement... it smelled like copper."Drakon stands beside me. He’s showered. The blood is gone from his knuckles, replaced by fresh tape. He smells of soap and tobacco."You weren't supposed to see that," he says." But I did." I turn to face him. "You broke his fingers like they were twigs, Drakon. You didn't even blink.""He had information.""Is that the excuse? For torture?"Drakon’s jaw tightens. He looks out over the city lights flickering to life in the distance."