Page 1 of Captive Bride

Chapter One: Tristan

We sat among the scattered boxes, a makeshift barricade in the room that promised a new beginning. The nursery, still a canvas of bare walls and unassembled dreams, was our fortress of solitude in this quiet suburb where we played at being something we were not. Adriana, her belly round with the lives we created, perched on the edge of an open box, rifling through tiny clothes that held a future we were desperate to secure.

"Tristan, do you think yellow was the right choice?" she asked, her voice echoing slightly off the empty walls.

"Yellow is perfect, love," I reassured her, spinning the wheels of my chair to move closer. "It's like...sunrise. New starts."

A chuckle escaped her as she pulled out a onesie, holding it up against her front. "For twins, we're going to need all the new starts we can get."

"Hey," I said, reaching for her hand, "we've got this."

The neighborhood knew nothing of the Callahan Domain, its luxury and lethal secrets. To them, I was just the guy next door who'd had a bad break on the soccer field, not the heir to a throne I could no longer claim. And Adriana, she was the doting wife, glowing with impending motherhood, not a queen in exile.

"Remember what Dr. Martens said," I reminded her. "Any day now."

"Dr. Martens from down the street doesn't know jack about delivering twins," Adriana muttered under her breath, but her smile didn't fade. "But yes, any day now."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I know. You should be home, with your doctor. You would be if…I mean, do I need to finish that sentence?”

She sighed. “I’m worried,” she said. “We’re getting so close to my due date, I can hardly walk and…shit, I’m sorry, Tristan.”

I tried to hold myself back from wincing. “It’s okay, love,” I said. “Before you know it, we’ll both be walking around like nothing ever happened.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said. “I can’t see anything stopping you.”

"And you?" she asked, her dark eyes filled with concern. "Will your legs be able to keep up with your stubbornness?"

"I'm a Callahan, love," I tried to joke, but my heart clenched at the reminder of my injury. "We're born stubborn. We die stubborn.”

"We don't talk about dying any more," Adriana reprimanded me gently, her fingers softly caressing my wrist. "We're going to be parents, Tristan. We've got too much living to do."

I met her gaze, the amusement in her eyes slowly dissipating into something softer, more tender. The sight of it warmed me in a way no fire ever could. Taking her hand in mine, I brought it up to my lips and kissed it gently.

"Okay," I acquiesced. "No more talk of dying."

“So what should we do instead?”

"Let's get more of these boxes unpacked before lunch," I suggested, eager to keep us moving forward, away from the thoughts of what and who we'd left behind.

"Lead the way, Mr. Callahan," she said, a playful lilt in her tone that made the air in the room feel lighter.

Together, surrounded by cardboard and hopes, we built a life in whispers and soft touches, far from the shadow of the empire that bore our name. It was a strange kind of peace, one crafted from necessity, but it was ours, and we would defend it with everything we had.

"Alright then, let's see what treasures we've packed away," she said, her voice steady but I caught the flicker of exhaustion in her eyes.

She moved slowly, a hand resting on the curve of her belly, as if to soothe the twins inside. Her gaze lingered on the empty spaces along the hallway—the places where pictures should hang, memories that should be on display. But our walls werebarren, stripped of any sign of our past lives or the family we once knew.

"Hey, you okay?" My voice broke the silence, concern lacing each word.

Adriana looked at me, her dark hair framing her face like a halo of strength. "Yeah, just thinking about everything that should be here with us." She paused, swallowing hard. "And everyone."

I wheeled closer, closing the gap between us. "We'll make new memories, Ade. For Callum and Catherine. For us." I reached out, placing my hand over hers on her belly, feeling the faint movements of our children. It was a bittersweet connection—a promise of life in the midst of our isolation.

"Tristan..." She breathed my name like a prayer, and it undid me every time. Her vulnerability was a mirror to my own—a reflection of the fear that gnawed at my insides since the day I lost the use of my legs.

"Adriana, look at me." I waited until her brown eyes met mine, pools of resolve amidst the storm of uncertainty. "We are going to get through this. Not because we have to, but because we've never known how to quit. You and me, we're survivors."

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