Chapter 156: But I’m Completely Yours...

The shower has long since stopped running. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, rubbing my damp hair with a towel as wisps of steam still cling to the air around me. The warmth of the water lingers against my skin, but it does nothing to chase away the cold settled deep inside my chest.

My eyes are still slightly swollen, red-rimmed—the evidence of tears I never meant to shed. My face is pale beneath the soft bathroom light.

But the pain in my stomach has finally eased. That slow, gnawing ache that coiled low and deep, twisting with every breath I took, has faded into something bearable. Tolerable. Almost forgotten.

I lower the towel.

My hand moves on its own, pressing flat against my belly, over the soft fabric of my nightshirt. The gesture is unconscious. Instinctive. A question I still haven’t dared to ask aloud.

Am I really pregnant?

The thought settles in my chest like a stone I can’t swallow. It’s still impossible. Still ridiculous. I’m an Alpha. Every instinct I have tells me this can’t be real.

And yet...

The truth is already there, quiet and undeniable, waiting for me to acknowledge it.

Dr. Alan’s voice echoes through my mind, unwanted and unshakable.

You’re seven weeks pregnant. Your husband is an Enigma. He can impregnate an Alpha.

I stare at my reflection, searching for something—some sign, some proof that this is all a mistake. That my body isn’t harboring something I never asked for, never expected, never even knew was possible.

But the mirror offers no answers. It only stares back at me. Pale. Uncertain.

As lost as I am.

My grip tightens on the fabric of my silk nightshirt, fingers twisting the material until my knuckles turn white.

I don’t know how to deal with this.

If anyone finds out—

No. I can’t let anyone find out. I have to find a way. A way out. A way through this.

A soft knock sounds at the bathroom door. Three gentle, deliberate taps. The sound cuts through the silence like a blade, pulling me from the spiral of my thoughts.

My jaw tightens. My hand drops from my belly.

He’s here.

How did he get into my room?

I locked the door.

I walk to the bathroom door, my bare feet silent against the cold floor, and pull it open with a sharp, deliberate movement.

Silas stands in the doorway.

The soft smile on his lips is the same one I once loved... and now hate.

I glance past him toward my bedroom. The bedroom door stands open. Then I look back at him.

"How did you get in here?"

He blinks, the picture of innocence, his brown eyes wide and unguarded. A mask. One I now know is nothing but a lie.

The sight of him—so calm, so composed, so infuriatingly patient—makes my blood simmer.

"I used the spare key."

Without another word, I brush past him, my shoulder bumping against his in deliberate dismissal.

I walk to the bed and sit on the edge. The mattress dips beneath my weight as I lift the towel to my damp hair again, rubbing it dry with sharp, impatient movements.

I don’t look at him.

"Didn’t I tell you I don’t want to see your face?"

He walks toward me, his footsteps quiet against the carpet. His voice is soft, almost tentative, as though he’s carefully testing the waters of my mood.

"But you’re hungry. I made soup."

"I’m not hungry."

GRRRLLLL...

The sound escapes again before I can stop it—loud, undeniable, a traitorous growl from my own stomach.

The silence that follows is deafening. My eyes widen. Heat rushes to my face, crawling up my neck and flooding my cheeks. I press a hand against my belly as if I can silence it, as if I can somehow take back the sound that just betrayed me.

"Fuck... again."

The words slip out in a whisper. The heat only deepens, spreading from my neck to the tips of my ears.

Silas’s smile widens just a fraction—just enough to make my embarrassment worse.

He steps closer, gently taking the towel from my shoulders. With slow, careful movements, he begins drying my hair. His fingers are warm, his touch impossibly gentle, as though he’s afraid of being too rough.

The heat climbs even higher. Embarrassment. Because of my own traitorous stomach.

His voice is low, almost a murmur, wrapping around me in the quiet room.

"Look... your body is more honest than you are." A faint smile touches his lips. "You’re hungry."

I glare at him, my voice sharp and defensive, slicing through the fragile silence.

"So what if I am? It’s none of your business."

I turn my face away.

"Just get out of here."

He doesn’t stop. His fingers move through my hair. Slow. Unhurried. Unbothered by my words.

"How could it not be my business?" His voice is quiet, patient, as though he has all the time in the world. "You’re my Alpha. And your—"

I don’t let him finish.

I shove him back. Hard. He stumbles two steps before catching his balance. The towel slips from his hands and falls onto the bed, forgotten.

I stand, my jaw clenched so tightly it aches. My voice rises despite myself, fueled by anger, frustration, and something else I refuse to name.

"There you go again with that nonsense." My words are sharp enough to cut. "I’m not yours. Remember that."

He steps toward me again, his expression untouched by my outburst. No anger. No hurt. Just that maddening calm. That infuriating patience.

He gently takes my hand, as though I’m something fragile, and presses it against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath my palm. His brown eyes hold mine, soft yet unwavering.

"But I’m completely yours." His voice is quiet, almost pleading. "And I have nowhere else to go... except to you, my Alpha."

For a moment, silence settles between us. Heavy. Charged. Impossible to break. Then a bitter smirk curls at the corner of my lips.

"You look like a homeless person."

I pull my hand away and turn toward the door.

"Go find a homeless shelter."

He follows without hesitation, quickening his pace until he’s beside me again.

"If the homeless shelter belongs to you," he says with a small smile, "I’ll stay there happily."

I don’t look at him.

"If I owned a homeless shelter, you’d be the first person I’d kick out."

His hand catches my wrist. His grip is gentle but firm enough to stop me. I turn and meet his eyes.

"The soup will get cold." His voice is softer now, almost fragile. "Please... just eat a little."

I wrench my hand free.

"I don’t want to eat. Especially something made by a stranger." My voice hardens, ice coating every word. "Just get out—or I’ll throw you out."

I turn and walk away, my steps quick, desperate to put distance between us.

His voice follows me, quiet but steady.

"If you eat properly..." A pause. "I promise I’ll leave. Without a word."

I stop.