Pregnant With Alpha’s Genius Twins

#Chapter 190 – Sand in the Hourglass

When Victor opens his eyes, there are spots in his vision. He blinks, trying to get them to clear, but then groans with the effort.

God, does it seriously hurt to blink?

But then he realizes that it’s not the blinking that’s causing the pain – that the pain was there already. It comes, sharply, with every breath, with every beat of his heart, which he can feel pounding in his head and his chest and his veins.

Victor groans again, turning his head to the side, pressing his eyes closed – doing anything he can to fight against the pain – anything he can to lessen it, ignore it, move on from it –

But he can’t – it’s there, in every piece of him. Taking over his body, his mind.

Victor tries to breathe more slowly, to pull the breath in through his nose and out of his mouth, to form thoughts around the pain, or through it –

But god damnit, it’s everywhere. All encompassing.

He grits his teeth, but can’t help the whimper that escapes through the tiny spaces left between them.

God, is this what it feels like to die? Is that what’s happening here?

He hears the whimper again, knowing that it’s him, but somehow – bizarrely – distanced from it. Is he dying?

If he is, then part of him wishes that he would just go ahead and do it already. Because this pain, radiating throughout his body and centering itself, sharply, high in his back, just to the left of his spine – the pain is just too much.

No, he thinks, clenching his jaw tighter, finally getting a clear word into his head. No.

He can’t give into this. Not now, not when he’s come so far –

Not when…

close to having them all back. He wouldn’t give in now. There was still so, so much to do. So much to live

back in the room. Part of him – some strange, ever-attentive part – had been listening even as he’d suffered the pain, been so close to passing out he was sure

forces still held the house, and that was true. But not for long. Victor had left enough of his

head, and he would be coming. He would be coming at any moment, to break through the

look on Joyce and Walsh’s faces when he took the pack from them. Takes it

to his

bearing on his surroundings. He’s laying on the cement floor of some kind of cell. He looks around, seeing stone walls ahead of him, thick with dirt

house, with what Joyce had said upstairs. But Joyce’s words had been fuzzy – Victor

pass out, at the end. He

sharp gasp and a little cry and then stops moving. The pain abates, but just barely. Still. He

his eyes again, trying to slow his breathing so that he can hear

he’s sure – two sets in boots, and then another

the sound of her voice. “Get your god damn hands off of me, or I swear to god, when we take this pack I will cut them off with

laugh that echos through him, but he regrets it, groaning as it twinges the muscles around the wound in

of keys against metal, the creak of old hinges swinging open. The sound of a body shoved, and then

her, not saying another word as

slight clang of her bars, meaning she’s pressed herself up against her door. “Play chopsticks one last time, or whatever it is you like to do with your fingers, because when I am out of here they are gone

his lip, working hard

then, he hears

she whispers, her eyes apparently falling on him for the first time. “Victor!” She says it louder now, calling to him. “Are

Alive?

his eyes again and takes as deep a breath as he can

says, the word light

her door clanging as she shakes