Page 172 of Deceit

“Thanks, Blue. I appreciate it.”

The phone moves again, and Blue appears, a genuine and serious expression painted on her face. “All of them.”

Alexander sent in another DNA test for Alaric and Atlas, making this the fourth one he’s done since I’ve been pronounced dead.

It took some time, but every lab or DNA testing site that performs these, I’ve carefully hacked. Whenever his name appears, I get notified and my skin crawls.

I’m still surprised he’s so adamant on this. What he wants with our kids is beyond me, but I’m beginning to think that his level of psycho runs deeper than just stabbing a pregnant woman.

In the meantime, I’m searching for the best attorney for Mills in case we need it. Making a quick sandwich before I go back to work, my cell begins to buzz off my coffee table.

Wiping my hands clean, I run to answer, already knowing it’s either Blue, Lucien, or Mills because they are the only ones to have this number.

It’s Mills with my babies.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Emmy, we need to wrap this shit up ASAP,” he says, harsh exhales hitting the receiver of the phone. “Likenow.”

“What—“ A loud blast booms from the other line, ringing into my ears and making me jolt backward. My brain instantly goes to Alaric and Atlas.

“Fuck!” Mills bellows before I hear a rustling sound which I can only make out as running.

“Mills!” He doesn’t respond, causing me to look down at my cell to make sure the call didn’t drop. He’s still there but can’t answer, sending a violent chill running down my whole frame. “Shit.”

Grabbing my sweatshirt, I sprint for the door without a plan. Only that something is obviouslyreallywrong, and I need to be there.

He’s at least thirty minutes away. You’ll never make it.

My heart forcefully slams into my chest on every rapid heartbeat, making it hard to move quickly as I want. I wish I could teleport there because no matter what is happening, I won’t be much of a help, and that alone makes me feel disgustingly worthless.

I’m out the door when I hear Mills mutter in a harsh tone, “Emmy, you need to get him under control!”

My brows descend as I fumble with my keys to unlock my Jeep’s door. “Who?”

“Who the fuck do you think?”

Instant anger hits my brain at his vagueness. “Mills, I’m playing with this—“

“Bishop,” he snaps. “He just tried to fucking kill me.”

I wasn’t fucking playing when I said Mills was a dead man.

And I sure as hell wasn’t bullshitting when I tell you that his touching my girl wasn’t going to go without me doing something drastic.

I didn’t need to spend too much time on how I was going to do it.

I was going to roll with it.

It’s been over a week since he broke the news of his paternity, and I’ve been simmering in rage ever since. I’ve been teeter-tottering on deleting everything of Emmy in my phone to finding myself staring at it with a piercing pit of emptiness in my stomach.

Every picture I’ve taken of her, every text message we’ve ever had, and the constant need to check her Instagram has been mocking and tearing at me.

And now that I’ve had plenty of time to reflect, I hate her more than ever. Except I can’t make myself delete a fucking thing.

They say love and hate are very similar emotions, ones with different reactions but the same gutting feeling when it goes horribly wrong. I want to smoke and drink her out of my head but know that’s never ever going to happen.

Not for me, but it sure as hell did for her.

---