Page 8 of Captive Bride

For a brief moment, I felt like a king surveying his conquered lands, only to find one last territory that refused to yield.

My gaze flicked around the room, searching—was Adriana nearby? She had become my silent sentinel, always watchful even when she pretended not to be. But she wasn't here, at least not within sight. This was something I had to face alone.

And I was glad.

I didn’t want her to see me like this.

I positioned myself at the top stair, eyeing the descent. The challenge was clear, daunting. Would surrendering to help be a sign of weakness or wisdom? In the Callahan Domain, even a momentary lapse could be seen as a chink in the armor. And yet, here in this peaceful suburban haven, the rules were different. Here, I could allow myself to be human, if only for a breath.

My hands gripped the cold metal of the wheelchair's armrests, the once familiar texture feeling alien under my touch. I hesitated, unable to shake the sense of trepidation that seemed to grow with each second I stared down at the steps leading to the sunken living room. Before, these stairs were nothing more than an architectural feature, but now they loomed before me like a declaration of my limitations.

"Piece of cake," I tried to convince myself, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. My eyes traced the edges of the first step, geometric and impassive, as if it dared me to defy it. But there was no defiance in my heart, only a quiet plea for something resembling normalcy.

The pain wasn't just physical; it clawed deeper, into the marrow of my pride. I could hear the soft sounds of life around me, the distant laughter of neighbors, the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, but it all seemed so far removed from this battle of wills between me and the stairs.

"Come on, Tristan. One step at a time," I whispered, my voice not betraying the tempest swirling in my chest. My arms tensed, ready to hoist my body upwards, to attempt the descent that suddenly held more significance than just reaching a lower surface. Each inch forward would be a victory, each pause a moment to rally.

The first lift was agony. Not for the strain in my muscles—though that was real enough—but for the stark reminder of my new reality. The second step was no less merciful, each shift forward a test of endurance I wasn't sure I was prepared for. With every heave, the pain lanced through me, a sharp contrast to the soft suburban idyll that surrounded this house.

Tristan Callahan doesn't back down.

I summoned the resolve that had seen me through countless negotiations and standoffs within the unforgiving world of The Callahan Legacy. But there were no rivals here, no enemies lurking in the shadows—only the relentless pull of gravity and the fight against my own battered body.

I paused, regaining my breath, refusing to look anywhere but ahead. I knew that each successful maneuver brought me closer to the end of this particular challenge, yet the knowledge did little to ease the leaden feeling in my gut. It was a small battle in the grand scheme of things.

But it felt huge.

The first stair might as well have been a cliff face. I planted my hands on the banister. With a grunt, I hoisted my body upward, muscles coiling like steel cables. My arms shook with the strain, not used to being my sole means of propulsion. The pain, a constant hum since the accident, spiked sharply as I pulled myself lower, my breath coming out in short huffs.

"Come on," I hissed through clenched teeth, reaching the next step.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, each drop a testament to the effort it took to drag my unresponsive legs behind me. Every inch gained was a small victory, every pull an affirmation of willpower over flesh. A lesser man might have given in to despair, but I wasn't just any man—I was a Callahan, and defeat wasn't in our vocabulary, even when cloaked in the guise of suburban stairs.

"Almost there," I breathed, my voice rough with exertion as I claimed another step. The banister felt cold under my grip, a stark reminder of the warmth I lacked below my waist. It was a battle, no less fierce than those fought in shadowed alleys or whispered negotiations, where the currency was power and respect. Only now, the adversary was my own body, and the stakes were etched in the lines of concern I knew would crease Adriana's face if she saw me like this.

Can't let her see me struggling,I thought, pushing harder, ignoring the fire in my biceps and the dull ache that had settled in my shoulders. She had enough to worry about, carrying our future in her belly, our twins—a new generation of the Callahan legacy—and here I was, grappling with three measly steps.

Tristan Callahan doesn't lose,I reminded myself, reaching the top with one final, grueling effort. My arms trembled, but they held. They had to—there was no alternative.

I allowed myself just a moment to savor the small triumph, gulping air like it was the finest whiskey from the Callahan Domain cellars. Then I turned my attention to getting back into the wheelchair that had become my temporary throne. It was a cruel juxtaposition—the king of his domain brought low, yet still sovereign in his determination.

"Never show weakness," my father's voice echoed in my mind, a mantra that had shaped me. And so, even in this quiet suburbia, far from the cutthroat world I ruled, I'd rise above the pain, above the doubts.

Turning to face the wheelchair, I was reminded once again of the stark contrast between my life before and now. Once, I moved with an assurance that came from being at the top of the chain, a predator in a world full of prey. Now, even a simple task such as fetching was fraught with challenges.

The wheelchair sat placidly at the top of the stairs, its presence more taunting than comforting. I locked eyes with it, as if it were another opponent to be taken down.

“Okay. Come on, asshole. Let’s dance.”

With a deep breath, I pulled myself around, using the banister as leverage. The smell of polished wood filled my nostrils, a gentle reminder of home—of Adriana and our twins waiting for me. That thought alone gave me enough strength to reach out and grasp the handles of the wheelchair, my knuckles turning white from exertion.

While still holding onto the banister, I carefully guided the chair down each step, muscles straining with effort. The rubber wheels bumped noisily against hardwood echoing through the quiet room—a cruel parody of applause for an act that shouldn't require any recognition.

My hands shook as I clutched the armrests of my wheelchair. The tremor was slight, a whisper of rebellion from muscles pushed to their limits. Gritting my teeth, I fought for control, determined not to betray the effort each motion cost me. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught her gaze.

Adriana stood a short distance away, arms crossed over the swell of our future where our twins lay hidden. Her dark hair framed a face etched with concern that she couldn't quite mask. I forced my lips into a smile, feeble but real, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

She didn't buy it for a second—the narrowing of her eyes told me that much. Adriana tilted her head, the analytic part of her brain dissecting every move I made. It was her way, always probing, always trying to understand what lay beneath the surface. She knew when I was putting on a show; it was a skill honed within the morally grey world we inhabited.

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