Page 27 of Say You're Mine

I'm the Grandmaster of this chess match, and when I make my move, I'll execute a devastating queen sacrifice, offering up a piece of myself to lure them into a false sense of security.

And when they least expect it, I'll unleash a blistering attack that will leave their defenses in ruins and their king exposed.

Checkmate.

I will fight with every last shred of will, every last ounce of strength in my battered body. I'll claw my way out of this nightmare with bloody fingernails and gritted teeth, fueled by the memory of Cara's smile, the feel of our baby's kick against my palm.

Because I made a vow, there in the golden warmth of our reunion. A sacred oath, whispered against tear-damp skin and sealed with desperate kisses.

A vow to come back to her, to hold her, to build a life in the shelter of our love. To be the father, the partner, the man she deserves.

And I keep my fucking promises.

The note crumples in my fist, the edges digging into my palm. And as I stare at the door, at the lock that stands between me and everything I hold dear, I feel a smile curve my lips.

Sharp. Savage. A blade in the dark.

"Let's play, Dr. Faulkner…" I whisper with a smirk, my pulse pounding war drums in my ears. "I hope you're ready, Mother Dearest."

Because you have no fucking clue what's coming for you.

Chapter eight

Cara

The beeping of the heart monitor drills into my skull, a metronome marking the sluggish crawl of time. Everything aches - my head, my ribs, the deep, unnamed place behind my navel where my child rests.

My child. Our child.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, hot and stinging. I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I've cried enough, a lifetime's worth of tears in the span of a few short months. Since June...

No. I can't think about that now, can't let the memory of his face, twisted in agony as they dragged him away, consume me. I have to be strong. For our baby. For the precious little life that's depending on me.

"Mia figlia, my poor baby," My mother murmurs from her perch at my bedside, her fingers gentle as she brushes a stray curl from my forehead. "I should have been there. I should have protected you from that... that strega puttana!" She spits the last words like venom, her accent thickening with rage.

A weak laugh bubbles up in my throat. Ever since Papa died, Mama's been pulling double duty on the overprotective parent front. But as much as her constant clucking and fussing grates on my nerves, I'm grateful for her presence, for the steadfast bulwark of her love.

"I'm okay, Ma," I rasp, my voice scraped raw from screaming, from the sobs I couldn't seem to stop once they started. "We're okay." I smooth a hand over the swell of my stomach, taking comfort in the solid weight of my child cradled within.

Mama huffs, her expression caught conflicted. "You and your 'okay.' Okay is not lying in hospital bed black and blue! Okay is not that figlio di puttana putting hands on my baby!"

I wince, both at the volume of her voice and the truth of her words.

She's right. Nothing about this situation is okay.

But what other choice do I have? I can't afford to fall apart, not when June is still out there, not when our baby needs me to be strong.

"The doctor said it's just some bumps and bruises," I remind her gently. "And a touch of preeclampsia, but nothing bed rest and monitoring can't handle."

Mama's eyes narrow, her lips pursing like she's bitten into a particularly sour lemon.

"Doctors," she scoffs. "What do they know? In my day, we didn't need fancy degrees to know when an expectant mother needs rest and proper food."

She rises from her chair, her knees popping audibly. "I'm going to get you some real food. None of this hospital cafeteria slop. You need strength, for you and il bambino."

I open my mouth to protest, but she silences me with a look. "You will eat," she says firmly. "And you will rest. Consider it doctor's orders." With that, she swoops down to press a kiss to my forehead before bustling out of the room, a hurricane in sensible orthopedic shoes.

The moment the door snicks shut behind her, I allow myself to sag back against the pillows, exhaustion settling over me like a leaden blanket. My eyelids droop, the events of the past twenty-four hours crashing over me like a tidal wave.

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