All Chapters of Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The screen goes black.Nikos’s laugh—that wet, gurgling sound—echoes in the silence of the courtyard like a grenade that just went off."He's alive," Markos whispers.Drakon doesn't speak. He stares at the phone in his hand. His knuckles are white, straining against the plastic case until—SNAP.The screen cracks under the pressure of his thumb.He throws the phone. It skitters across the asphalt and slides under a parked bike.He turns to the men. His face is a mask of stone, but his eyes are burning with a humiliation so deep it looks like physical pain."Get inside," he growls. "Now."He doesn't wait for them. He limps toward the clubhouse doors, his bad leg dragging, leaving a smear of fresh blood on the concrete.I follow him. I have to.The main room smells of stale beer and defeat.The bodies of the five dead brothers have been moved to the pool room, covered in tarps. The rest of the club is huddled in corners, cleaning weapons, whispering. The air is thick with doubt.Drakon d

"St. Jude's."Drakon tests the name on his tongue like it’s poison.He stands in the center of the ruined clubhouse, surrounded by smoke and broken glass. He holsters his gun with a sharp thud."It's a theater," he growls. "He picked the stage. He wants an audience."He walks to the wall behind the bar—the only section still standing. A glass case hangs there, miraculously intact. Inside rests a heavy, wooden gavel. The President's gavel. The symbol of the vote, the law, and the execution.Drakon smashes the glass with his elbow. Crash.He grabs the gavel. He shoves it into his belt next to his knife."Mount up!" he roars at the survivors. "Anyone who can ride, get a bike. We finish this tonight.""Drakon," Leon says, stepping forward. He’s wiped the blood from his eyes, but he looks gray. "We have twelve men. If he's got Reapers up there...""He doesn't want a war," Drakon cuts him off. "If he wanted a war, he would have leveled this place with the truck. He wants a show. He wants to

I heave into the porcelain bowl.Nothing comes up but bile and the sour taste of adrenaline. My stomach spasms, a violent, cramping knot that doubles me over.I flush the toilet. The sound of rushing water fills the small bathroom of the VP suite.I splash cold water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror. My skin is pale, translucent almost. There are dark smudges under my eyes. I look like a ghost.Six weeks.The number echoes in my head.I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white. It’s just stress. It’s the fire, the shooting, the body in the kitchen. It has to be.But deep down, in the place where I keep my darkest fears, I know.I dry my face with a rough towel.I need answers. And there is only one person who can give them to me.I walk out of the suite. The hallway is quiet. The brothers are downstairs, drinking, celebrating the victory at the church, or mourning the dead.I bypass the main room. I go straight to the basement door.It’s guarded by a prospect I

The door slams.The sound vibrates through the floorboards, through my knees, settling in my chest like a physical blow.I am alone with the plastic stick on the floor. Two pink lines. A death sentence wrapped in a miracle.I don't move for a long time. The bathroom gets cold. My toes go numb on the tile.Eventually, I stand up. I pick up the test. I wrap it in toilet paper, burying it deep in the trash can. As if hiding it makes it less real.I walk out into the bedroom. The VP suite feels vast and empty. The bars on the windows cast long shadows across the unmade bed where we—where he—claimed me just hours ago.Now, that bed looks like a battlefield.I sit on the edge of the mattress. I wait.I hear things downstairs. Shouting. Glass breaking. The heavy thud of boots pacing. Then, the roar of a bike peeling out of the courtyard.He left.My heart sinks. If he leaves the compound, he’s vulnerable. If he leaves me, I’m defenseless.Time stretches. The digital clock mocks me. 10:00 PM.

Gunfire erupts.Glass explodes as Drakon rolls across the asphalt, firing blindly toward the tree line. I dive into the footwell, covering my head as bullets ping off the armored chassis of the SUV."Cease fire!" Jax screams from the road. "Cease fire or we light the gas tank!"The shooting stops. The silence that follows is heavy, ringing with the echo of the blasts."Drakon!" Jax calls out. "You're boxed in. You have nowhere to go."I peek over the dashboard. Drakon is crouched behind the front wheel, his gun trained on Jax. He’s outnumbered ten to one. The men in the road—our brothers, men I’ve served drinks to—have their weapons raised."This is treason, Jax!" Drakon roars. "You raise a gun against a patched officer during wartime? That's a death sentence.""The club is already dead!" Jax yells back. "You killed it! You and the rat's wife!"Jax steps closer, confident in his numbers. He’s smiling, that oily, ambitious smile that reminds me of Andreas."Step out, Drakon. Drop the p