All Chapters of Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

I hit the concrete floor hard.My shoulder takes the impact, jarring the breath from my lungs. The cold bites instantly through my clothes, seeping into my skin like a disease."Thalia!"Drakon’s voice is a rough bark. I scramble to my knees, blinking against the dim, flickering light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.We are in a basement. It smells of damp earth, rust, and old blood—the copper tang is so thick I can taste it on my tongue. The walls are stained concrete. In the center of the room is a drain, crusted with something black."I'm okay," I gasp, crawling toward him.He is chained to a vertical pipe running floor to ceiling in the corner. Heavy iron cuffs bind his wrists above his head, forcing him to stand or kneel in an awkward, straining position. His face is a mask of dried blood and fresh bruises. His shirt is gone, ripped away to reveal the wolf tattoo that now looks like a target."Don't come closer," he warns, straining against the chains. "Stay out of reac

Glass explodes inward.Shards rain down on us like jagged hail. I cover my head, crouching against the damp wall. Drakon shields me, his body a heavy, warm barrier against the debris.Through the broken window, a massive steel hook swings on a cable. It clangs against the iron bars set into the concrete."Attach it!" a voice screams from outside.It’s Markos.Drakon doesn't hesitate. He lunges for the window. He grabs the heavy hook with his chain-wrapped hands. He loops it around the center bars, jamming the clasp shut."Go!" Drakon roars.The cable goes taut instantly.The engine outside revs—a high, whining scream of diesel torque.CREAAAAK.The wall groans. Dust pours from the cracks in the concrete. The iron bars bend, screeching in protest.Then, with a sound like a gunshot, the masonry gives way.An entire chunk of the wall rips free. The bars, the frame, and a cubic foot of concrete fly out into the night, dragged by the truck.A gaping hole opens to the alley."Move!" Drakon

"You asked for antibiotics," Zara says.She holds up the white paper bag from the pharmacy. Her hand is shaking.I lower the Glock, but I don't holster it. I step back, opening the door wider."Get in."She stumbles into the motel room. In the harsh fluorescent light, she looks worse than she did in the hallway. Her left eye is swollen shut, a purple and black hematoma blooming across her cheekbone. Her lip is split in two places.She limps to the cheap laminate table and drops the bag."He kicked me out," she whispers, touching her face. "Literally.""Andreas?""And his new friends." She sinks into a chair, wincing. "He didn't just take over the club, Thalia. He evicted it. Anyone who asked questions about Drakon... anyone who asked about the fire... he beat them down."I grab the bag. I rip it open. Penicillin. Syringes. Gauze."Thank you," I say.I run to the bed. Drakon is thrashing, a low moan escaping his throat.I fill the syringe. I don't hesitate. I inject it directly into hi

The tunnel smells of dead things and wet earth.We crawl on our hands and knees. The concrete pipe is narrow, barely wide enough for Drakon’s broad shoulders. Slime coats the bottom, soaking through the knees of my jeans, cold and viscous.It’s pitch black. No flashlights. We navigate by touch and the faint, rhythmic sound of Drakon’s breathing ahead of me."Keep your head down," he whispers. His voice echoes strangely in the confined space. "There's a junction ahead. Low ceiling."I duck, scraping my shoulder against the rough concrete. The air is thick, suffocating. It tastes of mold and the ancient, settled dust of the underground.This is the old maintenance access for the boiler room—a relic from when the compound was a factory. Drakon said only the original five members knew about it. Now, it’s our only way back into the kingdom we lost."Almost there," Drakon says.The pipe widens. The texture under my hands changes from slime to dry, dusty concrete. We are under the basement n

"Get away from the window!"Drakon’s hand clamps onto my shoulder, yanking me back just as a spotlight sweeps across the broken glass."They're setting up a perimeter," he barks, spinning me toward the center of the room. "They're not rushing us. They're going to squeeze."He turns to the room. The Chapel—once a place of sacred club business, now a bullet-riddled ruin—is chaotic."Barricades!" Drakon roars. "Flip the pews! Block the windows! I want a kill zone at the main doors and a fatal funnel at the hallway entrance!"The loyalists move. Leon, Markos, Riker—they grab the heavy oak pews and heave them onto their sides, creating a makeshift fortress in the center of the room. They pile chairs, the ruined table, anything solid against the shattered windows.I look at the prisoners.Andreas is zip-tied to a radiator pipe in the corner. He’s bleeding from a scalp wound, his face pale and sweating. He watches the barricades go up with wide, terrified eyes."You can't hold them off," And