Page 6 of Captive Bride

I nodded, pressing a hand against my belly as one of the children within shifted. Its movements were muted thuds against my hand, each one a reminder of the life we were bringing into this convoluted world.

“But he chased us out of our home. He made it so the delivery of the twins is going to be less safe. I don’t know if I can forgive him for that,” Tristan continued.

“He saved your life. He saved our lives. Me and the twins. You have to give him credit for that,” I said.

Tristan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "He still had no right... no right to make that decision for us. He shouldn’t have fucking brought Bellamy into our lives at all.”

I knew then that we weren't just talking about Kieran anymore. These were wounds that time hadn't healed, deep-seated insecurities and fears intertwined with the complicated bond of brotherhood. Tristan was wrestling with more than just feelings of betrayal; this was about control, about having the power to shape your own fate.

"We didn't choose this life," I reminded him gently. "But we're here now, and we have to make the best of it... for our children. And hey, maybe this isn’t so bad. Delaware is nice.”

Tristan stared at me for a moment before chuckling, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders. "Delaware is nice," he echoed, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I never thought I'd hear that."

“Don’t get used to it.”

I watched him closely, recognizing the battle behind his eyes. The lines of his face seemed to deepen, etched with the weight of decisions that bore down on him like chains.

We locked eyes again, and something shifted. A subtle drop in our defenses, a silent admission of the raw, gnarled truths we each carried. In that prolonged look, I felt the flicker of something real passing between us, fragile and tentative, yet undeniable.

The stillness of the nursery enveloped us, a cocoon woven from whispers of innocence and the faint scent of lavender. For a moment, amidst the elegant cribs and plush toys, we found an unlikely haven, a pause in the relentless march of our lives dictated by the Callahan or the Orsini legacy.

"Adriana," Tristan began, but the sound of a knock on the door sliced through the tranquility like a blade. We both tensed, our fleeting connection severed by the intrusion. The knock wasn't loud, but in the silence of the nursery, it echoed with the force of a gunshot.

My heart kicked against my ribs, not just from the effort of standing but from the surge of adrenaline that flooded my veins. I knew, as did Tristan, that no contact from the outside world was ever without consequence. Each rap on the wood was a question mark, a portent of news that could either fortify or fracture the fragile peace we had built within these walls.

"Who is it?" Tristan called out, his voice steady despite the sudden alert in his eyes. There was no immediate answer, just another sequence of knocks, more insistent this time.

I placed a hand protectively over my stomach, acutely aware of the lives growing inside me—lives bound to inherit a legacy of blood and honor. It was a chilling reminder that in our world, even the act of bringing new life carried its own set of dangers.

"Stay behind me," Tristan said, maneuvering his wheelchair with practiced ease toward the door. It was surprising, considering he had only used this wheelchair for a week. His broad shoulders squared, a silent testament to his unwavering role as protector.

I nodded, trailing behind him, my resolve hardening with each step. We were a product of this life, bound by duty and shaped by the shadows of those who came before us. But as we approached the door, ready to face whatever lay beyond, I sensed the beginning of something powerful unfolding between us—a bond forged not just by circumstance, but by the shared acknowledgment of our intertwined fates.

Tristan reached the door, his fingers grazing the wood before resting on the handle. He glanced back at me, a silent question in his gaze, and I nodded once more. My heart hammered in my chest, but not from fear. It was anticipation, a strangeexcitement for what was to come because whatever it was, we would meet it together.

There was nobody there. A box from baby world addressed to “the current resident”.

"I'd feel better if you stepped back," Tristan said, reaching out to the box with the hesitant air of a bomb disposal expert. I retreated, understanding his caution, and watched as he cautiously opened the package. Inside were small, innocent reminders of a life we were about to welcome into a complicated world: colorful onesies, fluffy blankets, and a teddy bear with embroidered eyes.

Tristan looked back up at me, his face softening as he sifted through the items in the box. It was such a simple thing, but I could see how it affected him. Perhaps it wasn't just the reality of impending fatherhood that startled him, but also how sharply it contrasted with his upbringing in the Callahan empire.

“Who is this from?”

“I assume it’s from the only person who knows we’re here,” Tristan said. “Kieran.”

His words hung in the air, another pang of betrayal lacing his tone. Kieran. The name was a wound reopened, a reminder of the tumultuous path that had led us here - to the sanctuary of Delaware, preparing for the arrival of twins.

“Tristan,” I began, my voice softer than I intended. “He’s not the enemy. He’s your brother.”

“He’s not my brother. Well, he might not be my brother. If Bellamy wasn’t lying and he is my dad…then what does that make Kieran? My cousin? I mean, technically, he wouldn’t even be a blood relative. Right?”

I didn't have an answer for him. Blood ties were complicated enough in normal circumstances, let alone when infused with the convoluted nature of mafia entanglements and concealed paternity.

“Regardless of the bloodline, Tristan, he’s always been there for you," I said. "At least try to see things from his perspective."

“Why are you suddenly going to bat for Kieran? I thought you hated him.”

“I did, until he put a bullet in Ronan’s head instead of yours,” I said.

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