Chapter 153 - ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THREE

Chapter 153: Chapter ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THREE

ANGEL

His voice was bored, as though he dealt with hysterical women trying to claw his eyes out every day. Maybe he did. What the fuck did I know about his life?

"FUCK YOU!" I screamed in his face, bucking and thrashing beneath him. My hips arched off the bed, trying to throw him off, and I felt it—

Hard. Thick. Pressing against my inner thigh through his jeans.

He was erect.

Disgust and hatred surged through me so violently I could taste it.

I gathered every ounce of saliva in my mouth and spat directly in his face.

It hit his cheek. Dripped down toward his jaw. A perfect, glistening streak of contempt.

"You fucking dog," I snarled. "You sick fucking dog. What’s wrong with you?"

Damien’s nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing. For a moment—just a moment—something icy passed through them. A murderous look that made my survival instincts scream even louder than my grief.

Then he smiled.

He released one of my wrists just long enough to wipe the spit from his face with his fingers. He looked at it. Considered it.

And then he licked it off his fingers while maintaining eye contact.

"Mmm." A low groan rumbled through his chest, vibrating against me where his body pressed into mine. "You know exactly how to get me excited, baby girl. Always have."

"GET OFF ME!" I screamed, renewed fury giving me strength. I thrashed harder, bucking my hips, trying to dislodge him even though I knew it was useless. "GET THE FUCK OFF ME, YOU MURDERING PIECE OF—"

"Language, baby girl."

"—WORTHLESS FUCKING PSYCHOPATH—"

"Getting warmer."

"—I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE SOMEONE GUTS YOU LIKE A FISH AND LEAVES YOU TO BLEED OUT IN A DITCH! I HOPE SOMEONE CUTS YOUR DICK OFF AND SHOVES IT DOWN YOUR THROAT! I HOPE—"

"Now that’s creative." He smiled wider. "Keep going. I want to see where this ends up."

"I HOPE THEY FIND YOUR BODY IN PIECES! I HOPE RATS EAT YOUR FUCKING FACE! I HOPE—"

"Rats? Really? That’s dark, Angel. I’m impressed."

"I HATE YOU!" The words tore out of me with all the force I had left. "I HATE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH! YOU’RE A MONSTER! A SICK, TWISTED, WORTHLESS PIECE OF GARBAGE AND I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL FOR WHAT YOU DID!"

I screamed in pure frustration. Tried to buck him off again. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. I was trapped and helpless. My baby was dead and he was making jokes about it like this was all some fucking game to him.

The fight drained out of me as suddenly as it had appeared. One moment I was thrashing and screaming, the next I was lying there limp, tears streaming down my face, my chest heaving with sobs I couldn’t control.

"You killed my baby," I whispered, "You killed my baby. You said you wouldn’t. You promised. I did everything you wanted and you still—you still—"

I couldn’t finish. The words dissolved into sobs. Ugly, wracking sobs that shook my whole body while Damien held me pinned to the mattress and watched with those dark grey eyes.

"I didn’t kill your baby."

The words didn’t register. They bounced off the wall of grief surrounding me and didn’t penetrate my ears.

"Angel." His voice was firmer now, cutting through the haze. "Angel, stop crying and listen to me. I didn’t kill your baby."

I shook my head. Still sobbing. Totally not hearing him. Not wanting to hear him. I was unwilling to let hope creep back in just so he could crush it again.

He grabbed my face with one hand, forcing me to look at him. His fingers dug into my cheeks hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to cut through the fog of grief.

"I. Didn’t. Kill. Your. Baby." He said each word slowly, "It’s still in there, perfectly fine."

I stared at him.

The sobs stopped. The shaking stopped. Everything stopped except my heart, which was suddenly pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

"You’re lying," I whispered.

"I’m not."

"You’re lying. This is another game. Another way to fuck with my head before you—"

He let go of my face and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out papers. Folded documents that crinkled as he smoothed them out with one hand, the other still pinning my wrists above my head.

"Read them."

He held them in front of my face. Medical documents. Test results. Imaging printouts.

I couldn’t move my arms—he still had my wrists pinned—so I just read. Let my eyes scan the pages while my heart hammered and my breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Fetal heartbeat detected. Strong and regular.

Development consistent with gestational age.

Measurements indicate...

Fourteen weeks.

The number hit me like a slap.

Fourteen weeks. That couldn’t be right. If I was fourteen weeks pregnant, that meant conception happened more than three months ago. That meant—

I did the math. Counted backward. Tried to remember where I was fourteen weeks ago, who I was with, whose bed I was sleeping in.

My blood turned to ice.

Fourteen weeks ago, I was with Damien. In that hotel, right before the auction. Before Vincenzo rescued me.

That meant the baby wasn’t conceived during my time with Daddy. It was conceived before. During my captivity with Damien. All those nights he held me down and filled me up and told me I was his.

Not Daddy’s baby.

Damien’s baby.

I looked up at him. Horror and confusion and something else I didn’t have a word to describe churning in my gut.

He was watching me. Waiting for the realization to land. His expression was soft now, while my entire world shattered around me.

And I kept falling.

Through the floor. Through the foundation and every belief I’d been clinging to.

Damien caught me, releasing my wrists to cup my face instead. His thumbs wiping away tears I hadn’t realized were falling.

"How could I kill my own baby?" He murmured, "What kind of monster do you think I am, Angel?"