All Chapters of Marked, Broken and Carrying his Heir: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Then she swayed. Slight. Barely noticeable. But Dante felt it. Pulled back. Looked at her."What"Blood. Running down her side. Her dress already red. But this was fresh. Flowing. Too much.The bullet wound. From Richards's guard. The one that had caught her side. Clean through. She'd barely registered it. The adrenaline. The rush. The pleasure drowning out pain.But now. Now the adrenaline fading. The rush ebbing. The reality setting in.She was losing blood. A lot of it."You're hit," Dante said. Voice sharp. Concerned. "Why didn't you""Didn't matter," she said. Voice steady despite the blood loss. "Had work to do."His eyes widened. She'd been shot. Mid-purge. And kept going. Kept killing. Didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just continued. Perfect. Dedicated. His."Atlas!" Dante called. Sharp. Commanding.Atlas was there immediately. Saw the blood. The wound. Her paling face. "She needs medical attention. Now.""Medical wing. Down the hall. We have doctors here. Go. Now."Atlas moved. Didn

She dressed. Carefully. Simple clothes. Black pants. Red blouse. Professional. Mrs. Santoro. Not the bride. Not the killer in the blood-soaked dress. But still wearing her color. Her signature. The Red Bride.The wound made it difficult. Every movement pulling. Aching. Reminding.But she managed. Bandage hidden under the shirt. The evidence concealed. The weakness invisible.She was functional. That's what mattered.Downstairs. The conference room. Dante at the head of the table. Isabella beside him. The remaining family heads. The allies. The new order assembled.Cameras still there. Recording. Broadcasting. Showing the consolidation. The aftermath. The proof of Dante's victory.She entered. Every eye turning. Seeing Mrs. Santoro. The killer bride. The woman who'd executed twelve traitors and kept fighting even wounded.Fear. Respect. Awe. All of it in their eyes.She took her seat. Beside Dante. His wife. His partner. His equal.He looked at her. Saw the careful movements. The hidde

Three days after the wedding. The wound healing. The stitches holding. The new order settling into place.The doctor arrived at the penthouse. Scheduled follow-up. Check the wound. Monitor recovery. Ensure proper healing.Dante was there. Watching. Protective of his investment. His weapon. His wife.Isabella was there too. Supervising. As always.The girl sat on the edge of the bed. Red blouse unbuttoned. Bandage exposed. The doctor examining carefully. Professional. Thorough."Healing well," he said. "No infection. No complications. The stitches can come out in another week. You've been following the care instructions?""Yes," she said. "Careful movements. Keeping it clean. Resting when required.""Good. Very good. You should make a full recovery. Minimal scarring."Isabella stepped forward. "While you're here, doctor. There's another matter. Testing. For fertility."The girl's breath caught. The conversation from the war room. Before the wedding. Isabella wanting to know if she coul

Hours later. The bedroom finally quiet.Dante emerged. Exhausted. Defeated but still in denial."Tomorrow," he said. "We'll try again tomorrow. And the day after. Every day. Until it works. Until you're pregnant. It will work. Has to work. The tests are wrong. They have to be wrong."The girl said nothing. Sore. Used. Exhausted from his desperate, frantic attempts. His need to prove something that couldn't be proved.He wasn't done with her. Not yet."Stay," he commanded. Pulling ropes from the bedside drawer. Equipment he'd prepared. Planned for.He positioned her. On her back. Knees pulled up to her chest. The angle deliberate. Calculated. To keep his cum inside her. To give gravity a chance. To maximize the impossible.He tied her knees in place. Rope around her thighs. Secured to the bedposts above. Suspended. Held. Positioned like a vessel. Like an incubator. Like a thing to be filled and kept full."Don't move," he said. "Stay like this. Keep it inside. Let it work. When I come

He led her to the bed. Sat her down. Knelt before her. At her feet. Where he'd always been. Where he belonged."Look at me," he said. "Focus on me. On this. On us. On what's real."She looked at him. Brown eyes meeting brown. Seeing him. Really seeing him. Not Dante. Not the obsession. Not the vessel. Just Atlas. Her Atlas. Her anchor. Her ground.He touched her legs. Gentle. Careful of the rope burns. The bruises. The marks Dante left. "I'm here. I'm real. You're real. This is real.""I'm real," she repeated. Testing the words. Trying to believe them."You're Novalee. Not Mrs. Santoro. Not the Red Bride. Not his vessel. You're Novalee Carter. The woman who survived the impossible. Who kept fighting. Who's still here. Still alive. Still human."Tears started again. "I don't feel human.""Then let me remind you what human feels like." His hands moved higher. Careful. Reverent. Not sexual. Just grounding. Connecting. Anchoring her to something real. Something hers. Something that wasn't