Page 119 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

She winces. “It hurts.”

“Okay, not fine. Um—hospital. Hospital bag. Car.” I’m muttering as I spin in a frantic circle. “ZALAR!”

She grabs my arm, her breath sharp. “Adrian, stop yelling. You’re scaring me.”

I immediately crouch in front of her, cradling her face. “I’m not scared. I’m—okay, maybe I’m a little scared, but I’ve got you, alright? I’m here. We’re going to have our baby, and it’s going to be perfect.”

She exhales shakily. “Promise?”

“Promise,” I say, kissing her forehead. “Now let’s get you to the hospital before you give birth on my designer rug.”

She laughs through a wince. “That rug is hideous.”

“Your hormones are clearly out of control.”

“Adrian.”

“Right. Hospital.”

The car ride is chaos—and I’ve survived gunfire, betrayal, and ambushes that didn’t shake me like this.

I’m in the back seat with Jennie, breathing hard, one hand clenching the edge of the door, the other wrapped tightly around mine. Zalar’s driving like the road owes him money, weaving through traffic like he’s chasing a mark.

I keep glancing at her. Her face is flushed, her forehead damp, and she’s biting down on her lip to keep from crying out.

I hate this. I’d do anything to take the pain for her.

“I’m fine,” she says, clearly not fine. Her voice trembles. “Don’t look at me like I’m dying.”

I brush her hair back, my heart pounding so loudly it’s in my throat. “You’re not dying. You’re having our baby. But if you were dying, I’d kill Death myself.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “That sounds like something you’d say.”

“It is something I’d do,” I mutter. “Zalar, faster!”

“We’re almost there!” Zalar yells.

Jennie groans, her hand tightening around mine like a vice. “Adrian—oh God—this one hurts—”

“I’m right here.” I lean over the seat, pressing kisses to her hand, her knuckles, her temple. “You’re doing so well, baby. So fucking well. Just hold on a little longer.”

We finally screech into the hospital parking lot. Zalar barely parks before I’m out of the car, scooping her into my arms.

“I can walk,” she mutters.

“No. I’m carrying you.”

Inside, nurses rush to meet us. The moment they see my face, my reputation clearly precedes me—because they snap into action like a well-trained militia.

They usher us into a private delivery suite, one that Lukin probably paid for months ago. Jennie’s settled onto the bed, her breaths coming faster, and the machines start to beep around us. I don’t let go of her hand for a second.

Jennie turns her head, sweat on her brow, but a soft smile on her lips. “You look terrified.”

“I am.” I lean down, brushing her lips with mine. “But not of this. Just of anything happening to you. Or the baby. I’ve never loved anything the way I love the two of you.”

She whispers something.

I lean closer. “What was that?”