Page 202 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

There was a pause.

“Yes, shot. His father—” Her voice broke. “Just get here. Please.”

She ended the call and looked back at me, her eyes filled with tears. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

I nodded, my jaw clenched against the pain. My mother’s hands pressed a decorative pillow against the wound, applying pressure. The white fabric turned red almost immediately.

Winston watched us from across the room, his expression unchanged. He looked like a man observing an experiment, detached and clinical.

“You’re going to comply, Amai,” he said quietly. “You’re going to stop this reckless behavior. You’re going to fix your operation. And you’re going to remember that Priest’s life is in my hands.”

I looked up at him, my vision blurring slightly from the pain and the adrenaline crash. “What do you want?”

“I want you to be smart,” Winston said. “I want you to stop letting your dick make decisions for you. I want you to remember that you’re a Landry, and Landrys don’t fall apart over women.”

“She’s not just?—”

“I don’t care what she is to you,” Winston interrupted. “What I care about is that you’re compromising everything. And if you don’t get your shit together, Priest will pay the price. Do you understand me?”

I understood.

I understood that my father had just shot me to prove a point. I understood that he had Priest locked away somewhere, using him as leverage to control me. I understood that Winston would do whatever it took to maintain his power, even if it meant destroying his own son.

And I understood that I was trapped.

Because as much as I wanted to tell him to go to hell, as much as I wanted to walk away and never look back, I couldn’t. Not while he had Priest. Not while Priest’s life hung in the balance.

“I understand,” I said finally, my voice hollow.

Winston nodded, satisfied. “Good. Then we’re done here.”

He picked up his bourbon and walked out of the room, leaving me bleeding on the floor with my mother’s hands pressed against the wound.

Mama’s tears fell onto my shirt as she held the pillow in place. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said quietly.

“He’s a monster,” she whispered. “I should’ve left him years ago. I should’ve taken you and your brothers and?—”

“Mama.” I reached up and touched her hand. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. Nothing about this was okay.

But I couldn’t let her see how much this had broken something inside me. I couldn’t let her see that the man I’d spent my entire life trying to escape had just reminded me that I was still his son. Still under his control.

Still trapped.

Dr. Arceneaux arrived eighteen minutes later, his medical bag in hand. He took one look at the wound and shook his head.

“Gunshot,” he said flatly. “Through-and-through.”

He knelt beside me and examined the wound, his hands efficient and practiced. “You’re lucky. Another inch to the right, and it would’ve hit the femoral artery. You’d have bled out in minutes.”

“Lucky,” I repeated, the word tasting bitter in my mouth.

Dr. Arceneaux cleaned and bandaged the wound, his movements quick and professional. He gave me a shot of something for the pain, then helped me to my feet.

“You need to stay off that leg for a few days,” he said. “And if there’s any sign of infection—fever, increased pain, swelling—you call me immediately.”