Page 25 of Captive Bride

"Well," she began after a moment, her voice still slightly breathless, "you definitely do a good job at taking my mind off things."

I chuckled at that, wrapping an arm around her to pull her closer. "I'm glad to hear it."

And I really was. For now, this felt like enough.

It would be enough until I had to lift myself up out of this sofa and go back to my wheelchair.

But for now…I just felt her body under me. And things were okay.

I just didn’t want to think about how long it would last.

Chapter Eleven: Adriana

Something was wrong.

I bolted awake, the clock's red numbers glaring back at me: 2:37 AM. The room was still, Tristan's breathing deep and even beside me. But inside, I was a mess of nerves, my pulse thudding in my ears. Twinges in my abdomen, sharp and unrelenting, yanked me from the comfort of sleep.

"Okay, Ade, just breathe," I murmured to myself, easing out from under the sheets. I tiptoed across the plush carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the bathroom door.

With each step, the twinges tightened, like a vice grip on my insides. Could this be it? My hand grazed the cool marble countertop as I steadied myself against another jolt of pain.Don't wake Tristan, not yet.He needed his rest.

"Come on, Adriana, you've handled worse," I whispered, trying to muster the bravado that had gotten me through countlessmeetings with wary eyes assessing my every move. But this...this was different. This was life, our life, making its untimely entrance, ready or not.

I glanced back at Tristan, his form shadowed in the darkness—a man whose strength and secrets were matched only by his fierce protectiveness. Soon, I'd need him, but for now, I'd let him sleep a few minutes more while I figured out if these were just false alarms or the real deal knocking at our door.

The silence of the night was a sheer curtain, one that seemed to close in around me as I sat on the edge of the bathtub. I had always been one to listen to my gut, to trust the instincts that so often whispered warnings beneath the din of family obligations. But now, those whispers were screams, each twinge a siren's call that something significant was shifting inside me.

I exhaled slowly, watching the fogged mirror reclaim clarity, revealing my face—a canvas of worry lines and wide eyes shadowed by uncertainty. This wasn't supposed to happen yet; six weeks early was too soon, even for twins known for their unpredictability. I pressed my palms against my abdomen, feeling the stirrings of life and the tightening grip of what I feared might be more than mere Braxton Hicks.

"Tristan," I breathed out his name like a talisman, hoping it would grant me strength. But there was no magic here, only the stark reality of a situation quickly spiraling beyond my control. I couldn't do this alone—not this time.

Rising with a steadiness I didn't feel, I padded back to our bedroom, where Tristan lay still ensconced in slumber. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of dreams I hoped were sweeterthan the chaos about to unfold. "Tristan," I said again, this time a whisper meant to rouse rather than reassure.

"Tristan," I urged once more, my voice trembling as much as my hands when I reached out to shake his shoulder. My touch was light but insistent, a harbinger of the urgency that knotted my stomach.

His eyes fluttered open, the blue of them muted in the darkness but no less piercing. They found mine immediately, reading the fear written across my features like the pages of an open book he knew by heart. Concern etched his brow, and the corners of his mouth drew down, ready to ask questions I wasn't sure I had answers to yet.

"Something's wrong," I managed to say, my voice a frayed thread dangling between panic and the need to remain composed. There was no room for doubt now, not with lives—our children's lives—poised on the brink of a too-early beginning.

“What’s going on, love?”

"Hospital. I think we need to go."

“Okay,” he said. “Take a deep breath. Let’s see where we’re at.”

The blood pressure cuff was in his hands before I could blink, wrapped around my arm with practiced ease. His fingers were steady, but his jaw clenched as the numbers betrayed a truth neither of us wanted to admit—my blood pressure was high.

"Let's call ahead," Tristan said, his voice a low rumble of controlled concern. "They should know we're coming."

Nodding, another contraction clawed at me, ripping a breath from my lips. I grasped his hand, knuckles whitening as I fought through the pain. Every inhale was a battle, each exhale a shaky truce.

"Okay," I panted, "okay."

The phone felt like a lifeline in Tristan's hand as he punched in the hospital's number with a precision that belied the chaos churning within. "We might have an early labor situation," he stated, voice steady, gaze never leaving my contorted face. Another contraction was building, a mounting pressure that threatened to sweep away any remaining pretense of control.

"Adria…I mean, Adelaine O’Connell," he said into the phone, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, a silent reassurance amidst the storm of my fraying nerves. "Yes, twins. No, not due for six more weeks—but something's off."

I tried to focus on the pattern of his breathing—deep and even—to regulate my own erratic one. But it was a losing battle; pain crested within me once more, and I doubled over, a low groan escaping my lips. Tristan's arms were my sanctuary, wrapping around me in an embrace that was the epitome of his paradoxical nature—strong yet gentle, decisive yet fraught with anxiety.

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