The bathroom mirror lies. My face is pale. Dark circles bruise my eyes. But the truth is heavier. Two weeks late. My cycle never misses. I lock the door. Flush for cover. Unpack the plastic box. The stick sits on the closed lid. I don’t need the instructions. I know exactly what I’m doing. My hands shake. I force them steady. Breathe. Aim. Hold. Wait. The seconds stretch. I count them. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. I set it down. Grab a towel. Cover it like it’s a guilty secret. I can’t look. Not yet. My heart hammers against my ribs. I count to three. Lift the towel. Two pink lines. Bold. Unmistakable. I’m pregnant. The word echoes in my skull. Knocked up. Dad is a stranger. But Daddy is different. I know his name. I know his touch. I know how he fills me. How he brands me. How he promised I’d carry his seed. My breath catches. I press a hand to my stomach. Flat. Bare. But something is growing. Something is mine. And it’s his.
I don’t panic. Panic is useless. I need him. I shower. Wash my hair. Pull on dark sweatpants and a thin tank. My fingers trace the plastic stick one last time. I slide it into my purse. Drive to the Iron Cathedral Gym. The one with the black doors. The one he belongs to. My pulse kicks higher as I walk in. The smell of iron and sweat hits me. The clank of weights. The grind of machines. I scan the floor. I don’t have to look long. He’s on the bench press. Heavy plates. Racks him. He’s wearing a tight black tee. Sweat darkens the fabric across his shoulders. His arms are corded. Veins mapping his forearms. He catches my eye. Stops. The bar lowers to his chest. He holds it. Presses up. Stands. Sets it down. Wipes his neck with a towel. Walks toward me. Every step is deliberate. Predator. Alpha. Mine.
He stops in front of me. Close. Too close. Heat radiates off him. I smell him. Musk. Salt. Raw man. My knees weaken. He reaches out. Fingers brush my jaw. Thumb traces my bottom lip. “You’re shaking, little girl.” His voice is gravel. Low. Commanding. I swallow. My mouth is dry. I pull the pregnancy test from my purse. Place it on the rubber mat between us. He looks down. Doesn’t touch it. Just reads the lines. His eyes snap back to mine. Dark. Heavy. Possessive. “Two weeks late,” I whisper. “It’s positive.” His breath hitches. Just once. A crack in the armor. He cups my face. Both hands. Fingers splayed against my cheeks. Pulls me in. I’m on my toes. “Yours,” I say. “I’m carrying yours.” His jaw clenches. A muscle ticks. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His body answers. He lifts me. Easy. Like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist. His hands grip my ass. Hard. I gasp. He carries me toward the empty corner office. The glass door slides open. He steps inside. Kicks it shut. Turns. Drops me onto the desk. Papers slide. A pen rolls. He follows me down. Caging me in. His body is hard. Heavy. Unyielding. “You’re really pregnant?” he asks. Voice rough. Raw. “I told you,” I breathe. “I’m bred for you.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Hands fly to my waist. Rips my sweatpants down. Kicks them away. My tank rides up. He pulls my underwear aside. Finds me. Soaked. Ready. Always ready. His thumb circles my clit. Hard. Fast. I cry out. Back arches. “Look at me,” he growls. I open my eyes. His gaze is burning. Devouring. “You take my cock like you were made for it.” He’s right. I was. He unbuckles his belt. The sound is loud in the quiet room. He shoves his jeans down. His cock springs free. Thick. Veined. Already leaking. I stare. My mouth waters. He grips it. Strokes once. Twice. The prep slick coats the head. He lines up. Pushes in. I gasp. He groans. The stretch is perfect. Burning. Filling. He bottoms out. Buried to the hilt. “Mine,” he grits out. “You’re mine.” I nod. Tears prick my eyes. Not from pain. From relief. From belonging. He pulls back. Slams forward. Hard. The desk shakes. I clutch his shoulders. Fingers dig into his biceps. He sets a brutal rhythm. Fast. Deep. Unforgiving. Every thrust drives me closer to the edge. I feel him in my stomach. In my womb. Claiming the space where my baby grows. “Fuck,” I moan. “Daddy, fuck me.” He growls. Slaps my ass. Hard. My skin flares. I whimper. He loves it. Grabs my hips. Fingers bruise. Drives deeper. “You take it all. Every inch.” His pace quickens. The head of his cock slams against my cervix. I cry out. It’s too much. Not enough. “Cum for me,” he commands. “Let me feel you squeeze my cock.” I shatter. Waves roll through me. My walls clamp down. I scream his name. He follows. Groans. Hips stutter. Drives in one last time. Holds me down. I feel it. Hot. Thick. Pumping. Flood. He breede me. Fills me deep. I feel it pool. Mark me. Claim me. He stays buried. Shaking. Breathing hard. I wrap my arms around his neck. Press my lips to his. He kisses back. Hard. Possessive. Tongue tangling. Swallowing my gasps. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “Told you,” he murmurs. Voice rough. Satisfied. “You’re carrying my heir.” I nod. Eyes flutter shut. “I know.” “Good girl.” He shifts. Pulls out. My pussy leaks. White and pink. I watch him. He pulls his jeans up. Buckles his belt. Turns off the desk. Picks me up. Cradles me against his chest. I rest my head on his shoulder. Breathe him in. Safe. Home.
He carries me out. Down the hall. To his truck. Sets me in the passenger seat. Buckles me in. Leans across. Kisses me slow. Deep. “We’re keeping it,” he states. Not asks. “We’re raising it. In our house. In our bed. Where it belongs.” I smile. Tears spill over. “Yes.” He reaches over. Brushes my hair back. Thumb traces my cheek. “Two weeks late,” he repeats. Smirking. “You should’ve told me sooner. I’d have been harder. Deeper. Kept you full all month.” I laugh. Soft. Warm. “I’m not letting go,” I whisper. He nods. Presses a kiss to my temple. “You don’t have to. I told you, little girl. You’re mine forever now.” The engine roars to life. I rest my hand on my stomach. Feel the warmth. The promise. The life growing inside me. His. Ours. Forever. The truck pulls onto the street. I close my eyes. Smile. Home.