Page 52 of Violent Reign (Violent Kingdom)

I press my fingers against the side of his chin, gently turning him back to look at the heart rate monitor again. “That’s our daughter’s heart beat, underneath. We’re having twins, Rome.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

ROME

Twins.And they’re mine.Fuck. Talk about walking out of hell and being handed a winning lottery ticket.

I can’t stop kissing her.

I want to have my mouth on Avery’s mouth for the rest of my fucking life. She tastes so sweet, so soft, and I need her like I need food and water. She opens for me, letting me explore her like it’s the first time. I’ll never stop. I’ll never stop nipping her bottom lip like this, I’ll never stop coaxing her teeth open with my tongue, I’ll never fucking stop.

I’ll only take breaks. Because I have to tell her what the fuck has happened.

Avery clings hard to me. She probably doesn’t want to let go of me, either. I get it. The feeling is mutual.

“I went to Eliza’s house,” I murmur into her ear. “And I heard the real story of what happened to Nathan.”

“Which is what?” She arches her neck so I have easier access. “That he’s a goddamn psychopath? Because I already knew that.”

“That he’s the product of an affair. Between my mother and Enzo. He’s my… he was Sebastian. Enzo lit the fire to cover up that he’d kidnapped him, his own son.”

Avery shoves me away with surprising strength. “Oh my God, Rome. Nathan is Sebastian?”

“It’s true. He’s my half-brother.”

“Jesus.” Avery sticks a knuckle in her mouth and bites at it. I glance uneasily at the monitor, watching her heartbeat accelerate. “I knew he was my cousin by blood. The police found that out. But I had no idea—I had no idea.”

“He’s a Capulet and a Montague. The worst possible combination of both, it would seem.”

“The worst qualities of both,” Avery says, her hands running protectively over her belly. “Not all those qualities would be present in...other babies. Other children.”

“Of course not,” I reassure her.

“Does your mother know?” Avery asks suddenly. “About Nathan?”

I look at the floor, rage threatening to burst free from my veins. I have to take my hands away from Avery’s belly - from my own children - because I can’t poison them with the rage inside me.

“He’s been visiting her for years,” I grind out. “Years. I’ve been watching him burn in my nightmares for my whole life. And he was here all along.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

AVERY

I’m thirty-six weeks,six days pregnant when I feel the first contraction. Those are the real weeks, not the ones Nathan was fed.

It comes to me while I’m sitting in the breakfast nook at the FBI safehouse. The place is an odd mix of homey comforts and utilitarian design. The breakfast nook is a prime example. It has bright, cheery cushions by a bay window. The bay window overlooks a sunny yard, full of fresh-mown grass. And on the inside, all the walls are the same eggshell white. There is no artwork on the walls except for a single framed print of the Beverly Hills Hotel in the entryway. That’s it, for the whole house. But the chairs in the living room are comfortable enough—two matching recliners. It’s just that I don’t have the energy to move to those recliners.

Last night I woke up with Rome wrapped around me and I couldn’t stop myself from needing him in a wild, desperate way that’s completely at odds with how enormously pregnant I am. I guided his hand between my legs and his eyes went cautious and dark. “Is it safe?”

“It’s safe,” I whispered in the dark. And then I came all over his fingers.

It’s been three days since we got here, and each night I need him more. I absently wonder how much I’ll need him tonight. And if I’ll give in to that need, instead of succumbing to sleep. Ugh. I need sleep too, so powerfully that sometimes I start to say something to Rome and wake up the next morning, the thought vanished from my mind.

At first I think the contraction is an aftershock from that orgasm. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen to a person’s body. Nothing disturbing enough to make me stop reading my book, which is a romance novel from the eighties, featuring a lady with a flowing pink gown on the cover. It’s very London society and titillation and I love it. I don’t mind that updating the meager library—one shelf of tattered paperbacks—has not been a priority in the FBI safehouse.

I’m halfway through another chapter when it happens again. A squeeze, starting at the top of my belly and tightening down to my pelvis. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s not comfortable. I toss the book on the counter and wait until it lets up, which doesn’t take very long.

But then another one comes. And another.I think I’m in labor.

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