Chapter 4

The first thing Eva saw when her eyes fluttered open was the empty condom box on her bedside table.

Bright red, bold white lettering: Monstrously Extra-Large Strawberry Condoms. The flap lay open, hollow. She knew what it meant before the memories came rushing back — Jax had taken the last of them last night, had split her open raw and then finished inside her, smug as ever, leaving the empty box as a taunt.

Her stomach turned.

She sat up too quickly, clutching the sheets to her chest, heart racing. Panic pressed down on her ribs like a weight.

Creampied. Again.

Her gaze darted to her body, hands roaming herself as if she might see the evidence written across her skin. There were marks, yes, but only faint shadows — pale bruises blooming along her hips, the ghost of a bite at her shoulder. Any other woman would’ve been purple, shredded, half-broken after what Jax had done. But Eva wasn't like other women.

Her body never let her be.

The curse of her gift — regeneration. The hymen he loved to break each time, over and over, grew back as if mocking her. Her bruises faded by morning, leaving only hints, reminders, echoes of what she’d endured. To any outsider she might have looked lightly roughed, not ruined. But she knew. Every ache in her thighs, every raw throb inside told the truth of what Jax had taken.

And worse than the bruises was the cycle.

Eva’s cycle was nothing like other women’s. A single day of bleeding each month, short and sharp, gone almost before she could brace for it. The rest of the time — fertile. Her body’s relentless drive toward conception meant only one day of safety, one day out of thirty where she could give herself to a man without consequence. Every other day was a risk. A temptation to fate.

Her pulse spiked as she scrambled across the bed for the small calendar tucked into her nightstand. Flipping through the penciled notations with frantic fingers, she found the mark she dreaded.

Last night was not a safe day.

Quite the opposite.

Her heart lurched painfully. It had been one of her most fertile days.

She dropped the calendar onto the sheets, chest heaving, throat tight. Terrified, she pressed a hand to her stomach as if it might already hold the seed he’d spilled inside her.

With Erik, she had known in a matter of days. Her body had bloomed fast, the life inside her racing forward at unnatural speed. A pregnancy term of three months, not nine. She’d barely had time to catch her breath before she’d been a mother.

And now… now it could happen again.

Her fingers trembled as she dragged the empty condom box into her lap. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glossy cardboard, distorted, mocking.

She whispered aloud, voice raw. “I’ll replace it. I’ll get a new one. He’ll use them. Every time.”

Her voice rang hollow in the room. She knew Jax. He’d laugh, he’d shove her down, he’d remind her that a box couldn’t control him. But she could try. She had to.

Pregnancy test. Plan B. Those were non-negotiable. She would stop at the pharmacy, pick them up, do whatever it took. She couldn’t let him win like this. She couldn’t let Erik see her belly swell and know, without doubt, whose child it was.

Her gaze fell again to the empty box in her lap. Her hands squeezed it so hard the cardboard crumpled.

And yet — shame coiled through her gut, traitorous, dangerous — a whisper beneath the terror.

What if?

What if she was carrying again? Not Erik’s father’s child, but Jax’s? What would it feel like to hold another infant, to smell that sweetness, to press her lips to soft skin? A sibling for Erik. Another life.

Her chest tightened. She hated herself for thinking it, but the thought was there all the same, fluttering in the dark.

She crushed the box harder, until the edges cut into her palms. “No,” she hissed. “Not him. Not his.”

She rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet tightly around her body, shielding herself from the ghost of last night. The room stank of Jax — his musk on the sheets, his laughter still ringing faintly in her ears. The scent clung, inescapable.

She stumbled toward the bathroom, body aching in ways no one else would see. She paused at the door, looking back once at the bedside table, where the crushed box now slumped like a corpse.

It mocked her, a bright red reminder of what she could not escape.

Her reflection in the bathroom mirror was worse: lightly swollen lips, faint and fading bruises, eyes too tired, too haunted. Once she had been The Shadow, a name whispered in fear. Now she was only Eva, trying to hide her shame behind closed doors.

But she wasn’t powerless. Not yet.

Plan B. A new condom box. A test, just to be sure.

Her hand pressed to her flat stomach again, fear and something else twisting deep inside.

Please, not again.

But in the shadows of her mind, a whisper answered back: Or maybe…

—----------------------------------------------------

The shower scalded her skin, steam billowing so thick it turned the mirror into a blur. Eva stood with her palms pressed to the tile, head bowed, letting the punishing spray drum down her back. She wanted it to burn her raw, to peel away the touch of his hands, his mouth, his cock splitting her open until her body forgot how to resist.

But the water only drove the memories deeper.

She shut her eyes.

The sound of Jax’s voice haunted her still: that guttural laugh in her ear, his words twisted with cruelty. “You’ll never heal from me, Eva.” He wasn’t wrong. The worst part was knowing how her body had answered him. Her hips bucking, her slickness betraying her, the humiliating tightness clenching around him while she whispered in her head that she hated him.

The water poured down her breasts, sluicing between her thighs, but she couldn’t wash away the soreness. She pressed her forehead to the wall, gritting her teeth, a low hiss of breath escaping her lungs.

And then—Erik.

The thought pierced her sharper than the spray.

Her son. On the other side of the wall last night. Listening, surely listening. The creak of the bed, the muffled cries she couldn’t hold back. Every noise Jax tore from her throat was a wound Erik had to hear.

Her eyes stung.

What did he think of her now? Did he hear weakness? Did he hear surrender? Did he know she had let it happen again and again because she thought it would protect him?

The water carried her tears away before they fell.

She remembered when Erik was a boy, when she’d tuck him into bed with a kiss on his forehead, whispering that she would always keep him safe. He used to believe it. She had, too. But how safe was he now, when she was locked behind a door, her body used as a toy by a man who laughed at her shame, while Erik sat alone outside?

Her fists struck the tile. Once. Twice. The dull thud echoed in the steaming room.

No more, she told herself. There have to be limits. He cannot own every part of me.

But even as she said it, the memory of the empty condom box burned bright in her mind. The timing. The danger.

She shut off the water abruptly, the silence rushing in louder than the spray had been. Drops clung to her skin, rivulets racing down her thighs. She stepped out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around herself as though cloth could shield her from her own thoughts.

She wiped the mirror clear with a trembling hand. Her reflection stared back, damp hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes hollowed by exhaustion.

And there, layered faintly beneath her own face, came another image — Erik’s. She could almost see him through her, his dark eyes, his uncertain smile. She imagined the way he’d looked at her at breakfast yesterday, warm, trusting, still her boy.

Would he look the same this morning, after last night?

Her stomach lurched. She braced herself on the counter, gripping the edge until her knuckles whitened.

She needed the pharmacy. Plan B. A test. And another box of condoms, no matter how much she hated herself for even keeping them. She couldn’t let herself falter again.

But the thought of walking into that store, of standing beneath the fluorescent lights while her hand reached for the shelf like some careless teenager — it made her want to crawl out of her skin. The shame of it pressed down, heavier than the towel clinging to her damp body.

Her gaze fell to her abdomen again. Flat, for now. But she remembered how it had been with Erik — the speed with which her body had changed, swelling in weeks where other women took months. Three months. That was all it had taken.

She whispered into the fogged mirror.

“Please… not again.”

The words fogged and blurred into nothing, like they’d never been spoken at all.

—----------------------------------------------------

The air outside was crisp, a touch of winter edging into the morning. Eva pulled her coat tighter, sunglasses hiding eyes that still felt swollen from too little sleep. The city moved around her, oblivious: couples walking dogs, kids tugging at backpacks on their way to school, a man sipping coffee from a paper cup. The ordinariness stung. None of them carried Jax’s scent on their skin. None of them walked with the weight of shame pressed down like a stone in their belly.

The bell above the pharmacy door chimed when she pushed it open.

Inside, fluorescent light stabbed her eyes. The smell of disinfectant and cheap perfume mixed in the air. A teenage cashier sat slouched behind the counter, scrolling a phone, barely glancing up. For a moment Eva almost turned back — the humiliation of what she had to buy was too sharp, too heavy. But her body wouldn’t give her that mercy. Her feet carried her forward.

The aisles loomed long and sterile. Cold remedies. Shampoo. Vitamins. She moved quickly, head bowed, until she reached the aisle she dreaded. Family planning. Rows of boxes in neat colors, labels shouting in bold fonts: Extra Protection. Ultra Thin. Ribbed. Flavored.

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t stop her eyes from skimming the sizes, each one a mockery. Large. Extra-Large.None of them measured against what Jax demanded. He had mocked them, mocked her, tossing novelty boxes on the counter before. “These aren’t made for me,” he’d sneered, slipping one over his obscene length just to prove the rubber strained too tight.

Her fingers clenched around the handle of her basket until the plastic creaked. She **** herself to grab the same garish box as last time: Monstrously Extra-Large Strawberry. It felt heavy in her hand, vulgar, obscene, like carrying a secret sign of ownership.

Next shelf over: pregnancy tests. Her vision blurred as she stared at the boxes lined in identical white and blue. She reached for one with trembling hands. Then, to be safe, grabbed a second.

And then the pill.

The bright pink box of Plan B almost glowed under the fluorescent lights. She picked it up quickly, dropped it into her basket as if speed could erase the shame of it. A part of her wanted to laugh bitterly — The Shadow, scourge of the underworld, reduced to skulking through a pharmacy like a guilty teenager buying condoms and Plan B in the same breath.

A cough drew her attention.

At the end of the aisle, an older woman stood with a basket, scanning the vitamins. Her eyes flicked to Eva’s basket, then away, uninterested. But Eva felt heat flood her face anyway, as if the stranger had seen everything — the bruises beneath her collar, the soreness between her thighs, the truth of what she was buying.

She turned quickly, moving to the counter.

The teenage cashier finally looked up, chewing gum with lazy disinterest. He scanned the items one by one, the condoms beeping loud as a gunshot. Eva’s chest clenched. She kept her sunglasses on, staring at the credit card machine instead of his face.

“Bag?” he asked dully.

“Yes.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

Plastic rustled as he dropped the items inside. She swiped her card, grabbed the bag, and fled the store before she suffocated.

The air outside felt too sharp, too cold now, but at least it was clean. She walked quickly, heels tapping hard against the pavement, bag clutched to her chest like contraband.

At a crosswalk she paused, waiting for the light, her reflection flashing briefly in the glass of a storefront. She looked like any other woman with groceries, nothing to mark the storm inside her. But she knew better. She saw the faint shadows of bruises peeking from beneath her scarf, the tension in her jaw, the secret hidden in the plastic bag.

Plan B. A pregnancy test. Another box of condoms to throw onto the bedside table like she was preparing for war.

Her stomach turned. She pressed a hand to her belly through her coat, whispering low enough no one could hear.

“Not again. Please, not again.”

But a darker whisper curled inside her, unbidden, unwelcome: And what if you already are?

—---------------------------------------------------

The lock clicked beneath her hand, and before she even opened the door Eva felt it — a subtle disturbance in the still air of the apartment. Not Jax, not Erik. Something sharper, brighter, a familiar presence that stirred unease along her spine.

She pushed the door open, grocery bag in her arms, her sunglasses still hiding the strain in her eyes. The smell of her own home hit her, faint coffee, dust, and under it something new — perfume. Expensive, floral, calculated.

“Mom?” Erik’s voice called, warm, casual.

Eva’s heart sank. He wasn’t alone.

She stepped inside, the pharmacy bag buried deep within the groceries, her fingers tight around the handles as if to crush the evidence of her errand into silence.

“You’ve got… a guest,” Erik said.

Her gaze followed his gesture. And there she was.

Cindy.

The years had ripened her, sharpened her into the exact kind of woman who knew how to turn a room in her direction without a word. Hair golden, skirt hem just scandalous enough to draw the eye, posture relaxed on the couch like she owned it. A smile tugged her lips, not warm but polished, a mask she’d perfected both in the League and in front of cameras.

Eva froze. Her own expression hardened instantly, the icy composure sliding into place before her son could read anything else on her face.

“Erik,” she said evenly, moving forward. “Take this bag and put the things away in the kitchen.” She didn’t look at him — didn’t dare — her eyes never leaving Cindy.

“Uh, sure.” He took the bag from her arms, still oblivious. The weight of the groceries shifted from her hands to his, lighter now but somehow heavier with what she knew she had forgotten inside. The pharmacy bag. Her chest clenched, but it was too late. Erik was already turning toward the kitchen.

Her attention snapped back to Cindy.

Cold. Detached. That was the only way to handle her now. Eva’s hand flicked toward the hallway, an unspoken command, and she led the other woman toward her bedroom. The air between them thickened with every step.

Inside, the door shut with a soft click.

Cindy’s mask slipped the tiniest fraction, enough to let her voice drop lower, more private. She spoke quickly, her tone lined with urgency. Women disappearing across the city. No leads, no traces, the League stretched thin and unraveling with fear.

Eva listened, arms crossed tight over her chest, every word striking a chord she didn’t want touched. Of course she’d heard whispers. She always heard them. But hearing it from Cindy’s mouth, heavy with the weight of the League’s desperation, made her jaw tighten until her teeth ached.

And then the question came. The one she had been dreading since the moment she saw Cindy sitting in her apartment.

Would she help? Would she return?

The refusal rose sharp and immediate. “No.” Her voice was flat steel, final, her eyes narrowed with a glare that could have cut glass.

Cindy pressed, not with more words but with the weight of her presence, with the stubborn glint in her eyes that said she wouldn’t let this go easily. Eva felt anger bloom hot beneath her ribs — not only at the audacity, but at the danger. Erik. Always Erik. He could never know. And worse, if she stepped back into that world, his safety would dissolve like mist.

Her hand shot out, fingers curling around Cindy’s arm as she moved to guide her firmly toward the door. “Enough.”

The contact was brief, almost casual — but she felt it. The faint shift, the subtle shiver beneath Cindy’s skin. A probe, delicate and unwanted, like a fingertip brushing the surface of her thoughts. Cindy’s power. It brushed against Eva’s fury, against the storm of fear and shame she carried, against the shadow of Jax’s claim still burning fresh in her body.

Cindy stopped. The fight drained from her shoulders, her lips pressing tight. She didn’t argue again. Whatever she had seen — or felt — was enough.

Eva released her, the air sharp with finality. She opened the bedroom door, her expression cold as ice.

Cindy slipped past her, sunglasses sliding back into place, mask restored. Without another word, she moved down the hall, heels clicking softly, and moments later the apartment door closed behind her.

Eva stood still, heart pounding, every nerve on edge. In the kitchen, she could hear Erik shifting groceries, cabinets opening and closing. She hadn’t told him to look for the pharmacy bag. She hadn’t reminded herself to take it back. And now the thought of it sitting there, nestled among apples and bread, waiting to be found — it clawed at her like a living thing.

She pressed her back against the wall, eyes closed, breath ragged.

Cindy was gone. But the danger wasn’t.

It never was.

—-------------------------------------------

The door clicked shut behind Cindy, leaving silence in her wake. Eva stood rigid in the middle of her bedroom, her breath sharp, her hands trembling with rage.

How dare she?

The nerve to sit here — in her home — and speak as though Eva could simply slip back into that life, as though Erik didn’t exist, as though the years hadn’t carved her into someone entirely different. Cindy’s words echoed like a taunt: The League needs you. The women are vanishing. Don’t you care?

Of course she cared. Every name lost, every shadow creeping over the city still gnawed at her bones. But caring was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She had more to lose now than she had ever possessed back then. She had Erik. His safety outweighed everything else.

Eva’s fists curled, nails biting her palms. She hoped Cindy had understood her fury, her refusal, without resorting to her abilities — without prying past her defenses. The thought of Cindy brushing even lightly against her mind filled her with cold dread.

Her eyes dropped to the floor, her chest tightening. The pharmacy bag.

She had shoved it into the grocery sack in her hurry. Erik had taken it from her hands, dutiful, unsuspecting. For a moment the memory flared bright, but the storm in her head chased it aside. She needed the heat of the shower, the hiss of water, something to strip Cindy’s intrusion from her skin.

She stepped quickly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

The spray scalded her shoulders as she leaned into the tile, eyes closing, steam fogging her senses. But even over the rush of water, her sharpened hearing caught it — the faint, unmistakable sound of paper tearing. A thin rip, deliberate, too precise to be anything else.

Her eyes snapped open.

The pharmacy bag.

Her stomach plunged. She pressed her palm to the wall, water streaming down her arm as panic clawed through her chest. He had found it. He was touching it. She could hear him even now in her mind, the rustle of cardboard, the cruel clarity of labels: Plan B. Pregnancy test. Monstrously Extra-Large Strawberry.

Her breath quickened. For a moment she considered rushing out, dripping and half-dressed, to snatch it from his hands. But that would confirm everything. That would make the secret visible.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to finish quickly, every second of rinsing agony.

When she emerged, hair damp, clothes pulled hastily over damp skin, her steps slowed at the threshold of the hall. The apartment was still.

Her eyes flicked first to the kitchen. The counter held it plainly in view: the small white pharmacy bag, the seal ripped jagged across the top.

Her chest seized.

And then to the couch. Erik sat there, laptop balanced on his knees, the screen’s glow lighting his face. His expression was neutral, almost calm. Too calm. His eyes flicked up at her briefly, then back down, as though nothing was amiss.

But the torn bag sat untouched just feet away.

Eva moved toward it, every step careful, as though she were walking a minefield. She kept her face smooth, her voice locked tight in her throat, even as questions screamed behind her eyes. Did he look inside? Did he see? What does he think of me now?

She reached the counter, fingers brushing the cool paper. Slowly, she drew it toward her, sliding it into her grip, lifting it as though it might explode.

No word from Erik. No glance, no question. He typed idly, focused on his screen, his lips pressed together in thought.

She clutched the bag to her side, turning without a word. Her heart hammered so hard it made her ribs ache. She walked the short distance back to her bedroom, every second stretched thin, every beat of silence heavier than the last.

Inside, she shut the door softly and leaned against it, the bag pressed to her chest. Her breath came ragged, uneven.

She wanted to believe he hadn’t looked. That he had respected her privacy, left it unopened, ripped seal or not. That he was still her boy, too innocent to dig into things that weren’t his.

But the seal had been torn. She had heard it herself. And the not knowing burned worse than certainty.

Eva sank to sit on the edge of her bed, the bag heavy in her lap.

She wanted to march out there, demand the truth, but the words caught in her throat. What if asking confirmed it? What if Erik had already glimpsed the garish condom box, the test kits, the pill? What would he see then — a responsible mother safeguarding herself, or a broken woman tethered to a sadist, reduced to humiliating rituals of prevention?

Her hand tightened around the bag until the cardboard inside creaked.

No. Better to stay silent. Better to hope.

She closed her eyes, her body trembling, the sound of tearing paper echoing over and over in her head.

—-----------------------------------------

The apartment was too quiet.

Eva sat on the edge of her bed with the pharmacy bag in her lap, the paper crumpling beneath her grip. Her palms were damp, her knuckles white. The weight inside the bag felt heavier than any weapon she’d ever carried.

She stared at it for long minutes, breath shallow, as if opening it would make the truth leap out and **** her. Cindy’s perfume still lingered faintly in the air, souring her stomach. The echo of Erik moving in the kitchen replayed in her mind — the torn seal, the sound she’d heard even over the rush of the shower.

Did he see this? Did he know?

Her fingers clenched harder, then loosened. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

She rose, legs unsteady, and walked to the bathroom. The overhead light was merciless, buzzing faintly, reflecting off the tiles in a glare that made her eyes ache. She closed the door and turned the lock, her chest constricting with the hollow click.

From the bag, she drew the box — crisp, clinical, blue-and-white letters spelling out “Early Detection Pregnancy Test.” She ran her thumb over the edge, a tremor coursing through her body.

She had done this before. Once. Long ago. A younger woman, scared, standing in another bathroom with another box in her hand. Back then she had been braver, she thought bitterly. Or maybe just more naïve.

She ripped the box open. The plastic rattled as the slim stick slid into her palm. White. Harmless-looking. Yet heavier than the weight of her entire past.

Her throat tightened. She set it on the sink, fingers trembling.

The instructions blurred before her eyes, though she knew them by heart. Urinate. Wait three minutes. One line, negative. Two lines, positive.

Simple. Cruel.

Her hands shook as she followed through, the act mechanical, stripped of dignity. She set the test down on the sink and pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders.

Now the wait.

Three minutes.

The longest three minutes of her life.

She leaned against the counter, palms pressed to cold porcelain, her heartbeat loud in her ears. The small stick lay there, indifferent, face down like a sword on the battlefield waiting to be claimed.

Every tick of the bathroom clock carved deeper into her chest.

Her mind turned traitor.

She remembered her first pregnancy — Erik’s. How quickly her body had betrayed her secrets. Three weeks, and she had been certain. One month, and her belly had started to swell in ways normal women didn’t. Three months, and he had been born. Three months to grow a life that changed everything.

Her stomach lurched. What if it was happening again? What if her body was already racing ahead, knitting cells, weaving flesh, refusing to wait for her mind to catch up?

She pressed a hand to her abdomen, trembling fingers splayed over flat muscle. Nothing yet. But soon?

Her reflection in the mirror stared back: pale, damp hair framing hollow eyes, lips pressed tight. She saw not a mother, not a heroine, but a woman cornered by her own biology.

She thought of Erik’s face. His trust. His smile. She imagined the betrayal in his eyes if he learned she carried Jax’s child. The disgust. The questions. The knowledge he could never unsee.

Her knees weakened. She sank onto the closed toilet lid, folding in on herself, arms wrapped around her belly.

Three minutes.

Two.

One.

The air was thick. She rose slowly, every motion ****, like a prisoner approaching the gallows. Her hand hovered over the stick. Her chest tightened so much she thought her ribs would crack.

She turned it over.

Two lines.

The breath left her in a ragged gasp. The world tilted.

Positive.

The word screamed through her head like a verdict. She staggered back, one hand clutching the sink for balance. Her other hand still held the test, the cruel pink lines glaring up at her.

Her body froze, but inside, chaos. Terror clawed through her — of Jax, of what he’d say, of what he’d do. Fury followed, hot and sharp, at herself, at the condoms, at her own damn biology.

And beneath it all, shamefully, horribly, something else stirred. A flicker of warmth, treacherous, whispering of tiny hands, of the sweetness of a newborn’s breath. Of being a mother again, though this time not with Erik’s father, but with Jax.

Her stomach turned violently. She hated herself for it.

The test clattered into the sink as her hand released it. She gripped the counter with both hands, knuckles white, chest heaving. Her reflection blurred with tears she refused to let fall.

She whispered to herself, barely audible.

“No. Not again. I can’t…”

But the lines stared back, unchanging.

Two lines.

Positive.

She sank to the floor, back against the cabinet, drawing her knees to her chest. Her robe hung loose, her body shaking. For a long time she could only sit there, staring at nothing, the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She imagined Erik opening the door, finding her like this, holding the test. She imagined the look on his face — confusion, then dawning horror.

The thought broke her. A sob ripped free, muffled into her hands.

She stayed like that until the minutes blurred into an hour.

When she finally rose, legs unsteady, she slipped the test back into its box, shoving it deep into the pharmacy bag. Her eyes were dry again, her face a mask, but her heart was chaos.

She knew what came next. She had to face Jax.

—------------------------------------------------------

Eva pulled her coat tighter, the fabric feeling like a meager shield against the pervasive rot of Darklight City. The club was only a few blocks from their apartment, close enough that the rhythmic bass thudding through the night air felt like an extension of the shame that lived in her chest.

The front of the establishment was a gaudy, neon-soaked facade—The Black Spade. It operated openly as a high-end strip club, its main stage currently occupied by a woman whose body blurred under the strobe lights. This was the lure, the cover. Eva had worked here for years as a hostess in skimpy and almost see-through silk outfit, moving among the tables, smiling despite occasionally getting groped, watching. But years ago, the faint, overlapping heartbeats and panicked whispers her super-hearing registered from the back corridors had told her the truth the police ignored.

Beyond the smoke and cheap champagne of the main room, past the bars and the rows of velvet booths, the club transformed into the nerve center of Jax’s power. The rear was dedicated to the mafia’s criminal operations—**** distribution, money laundering, and, more recently, a horrifying new development: a network of private VIP rooms and gloryholes where women worked as prostitutes. Some were ****, some were tragically sex-trafficked—human collateral Jax controlled with an iron fist. Eva’s secret knowledge of this hidden layer was part of her personal hell; she knew what she was enabling simply by working the front.

She didn't linger. Her heels clicked sharply across the marble floor of the lobby, drawing nervous glances from the bouncers, who parted instantly for her. She headed straight for the discreet, mirrored elevator tucked behind the bottle service station. It was the only way to the first floor—Jax’s territory.

The office upstairs was a world away from the noise. Soundproof, heavy-carpeted, and smelling faintly of expensive leather and stale cigar smoke, it was his fortress. She walked past the nervous-looking bodyguard outside and pushed the solid mahogany door open without knocking.

Jax was seated behind a vast, polished desk, talking into a hands-free headset while idly stacking poker chips. He wore a heavy black suit tonight, a contrast to his usual silk shirts, making him look less like a gangster and more like a king.

He glanced up, annoyance at the interruption hardening his features, but the sight of her tense posture made him pause. He ended the call abruptly, tossing the headset onto the desk.

"Eva. You know better than to interrupt me when I'm working." He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "You look like hell. Did the kid finally try to play hero?"

Eva didn't rise to the bait. She walked to the center of the room and placed the small, white pregnancy test strip on the precise center of his desk, pushing it forward with a single, deliberate movement.

"It's positive," she stated, her voice flat, emotionless.

Jax stared at the strip of pregnancy test. The color drained from his face—the initial, powerful shock she had anticipated. His eyes darted from the strip to her abdomen, then back to the strip again. He pushed himself upright, his heavy chair scraping back violently across the floor.

"Impossible," he breathed, the word stripped of its usual bravado. "It hasn't been long enough. I thought—I thought we had time."

"My body doesn't do 'time,' Jax," Eva said, crossing her arms tight over her chest. "It does speed. It does acceleration. It's happening. And you know why."

The shock lasted only a second longer before a terrifying, visceral excitement flooded his features. The flat chips of his eyes widened, glittering with maniacal delight. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, not the smug grin of sexual dominance, but something far more frightening: possessive, future-focused pride.

"A son," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence. He moved around the desk, his massive frame blocking the light from the window. "A child of my own." He reached out, his hand hovering over her belly, then dropped the gesture, his gaze snapping back to her. "Maybe this time you'll give birth to a boy who actually grows into a man, Eva. Not some sniveling little lab rat who hides in his room while his mother is screaming my name. Maybe this one will be worthy of his inheritance."

The taunt, directed at Erik, cut Eva deeper than any bruise. Her resolve, which had been wavering between fear and confusion, snapped into clear, protective fury.

"You won't touch him," she hissed. "And you won't touch me. There will be no child, Jax. I'm going to abort."

The smile vanished instantly. His face contorted, a mask of pure, violent rage. "You bitch! You think I'll let you destroy my claim? You think you can just toss my flesh away like a used condom?"

He took a heavy step toward her, his fists clenching at his sides, his shoulders tense. Eva braced herself, her own muscles coiling beneath her clothes, ready to push him through the wall if he dared touch her with ****.

But Jax stopped. He **** his breathing to slow, the animal rage dissolving into chilling control.

"Don't be rash, baby," he said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous murmur. He raised his hands, palms open, a gesture of faux surrender. "Think about this. A child changes everything. It means I stop fooling around. I give you the real life you deserve. We leave Darklight. We will move to an estate. I'll secure everything. Erik, too. No more clubs, no more looking over your shoulder. Just a family."

He was using the one language that could still reach her: safety for Erik.

"You call this a family?" Eva scoffed, her voice shaking with disgust. "You use my son as an audience for your perversions. You use the other women in this club as meat for your mafia friends. You think I would allow a child of mine to be raised by you?"

"But he would be ours," Jax countered, his gaze softening, turning seductive and mournful. "You know how much I want this, Eva. I'm getting older. I want a son to inherit this city, a son whose strength will rival yours. Give me this. Give me a reason to be gentle."

He took another slow step toward her, closing the gap. Eva could feel the heat radiating off him. Her breath hitched. The conflicting emotions—the protective fury, the sudden maternal desperation, and the raw fear—whipped through her. She shook her head.

"I won't keep it."

"You will," Jax purred, his voice now a low command. He reached out, not with aggression, but with a horrifying, possessive tenderness, cupping her face between his massive palms. "You will, and I'll make you feel good about it."

He didn't wait for her consent. He brought his mouth down on hers, not with the brutal pressure of last night, but with a deep, consuming kiss that melted her defenses just enough to confuse her. His hands slid down her neck, tracing the edge of her coat, and then, with sudden, decisive strength, he spun her around and shoved her forward.

Eva gasped, stumbling over the corner of his desk. She landed hard, bracing her palms on the cold, polished mahogany, her hips jutting back, legs splayed. The coat bunched around her waist, her body presented to him in a humiliating, exposed angle.

He pulled her dress up violently, tearing the thin fabric as he did, and Eva flinched. She looked back over her shoulder, panicked.

"The condom, Jax! You have to use a condom!" she pleaded, shame and the immediate thrill of arousal washing over her.

Jax laughed, a deep, satisfied sound. He unzipped his trousers with a tearing sound, his erection already thick and heavy, springing free.

"No need for rubber now, Eva," he murmured into her ear, his breath hot and thick. "You're already knocked up. We're just making sure this little miracle gets some of its father's fire."

He didn't wait for her to process the terror or the betrayal. He drove into her with a smooth, powerful thrust, splitting the regenerated tissue of her hymen cleanly. Eva cried out, the pain sharp and immediate, even through the soundproof walls.

But then, Jax did the unimaginable. He didn't pound or thrust with the monstrous brutality he usually favored. Instead, his rhythm was slow, deep, and unnervingly gentle. He held her hips steady, his huge cock buried to the hilt, and worked with a meticulous, careful pace.

"Look at this," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft, his hand leaving her hips to slide onto her flat abdomen. His palm pressed firmly against her belly, right over the spot where his seed was growing. "It's already full, isn't it? My life inside you."

He thrust slowly, deeply, the motion pushing Eva's pelvis hard against the mahogany desk, a dull, bruising impact. She groaned, caught between the pain of the desk edge and the strange, intimate pleasure of his slow pace.

"Think about Erik," Jax commanded, his voice hypnotizing. "You carried him right here. Felt him kick. You loved that, didn't you? That feeling of life."

His thumb massaged the skin of her belly, sending currents of conflicting emotion through her. She remembered the swelling, the speed, the secret warmth of life growing inside her. She remembered the immense love. And Jax was using that memory, weaponizing her maternal desire against her resolve.

He pulled back slowly, deliberately, then pressed forward, filling her completely.

"This is how it begins, Eva," he insisted, his pace rhythmic, focusing on the deep, intimate connection rather than violent submission. His hand never left her belly, his touch both a caress and a brand. "This is a promise. I'll make you feel that again. You want this, baby. You want to be a mother again."

Eva's mind screamed a denial—I hate this, I hate you—but her body, confused by the strange tenderness, betrayed her. Her muscles clenched around him, pulling him deeper, her thighs trembling as she pressed back against the desk. She could feel the pressure building, the shame and the arousal twisting together into an uncontrollable storm.

Jax groaned, his pace picking up just slightly, enough to push her over the edge. Her body convulsed against the desk, a raw, ragged cry tearing from her throat as she came, the release utterly humiliating in its intensity. Jax held her tight, his hand still clamped over her belly, emphasizing his victory.

He pulled out moments later, slick and heavy, his semen pooling on the desk and running down her thighs. He finished inside her, not with aggression, but with a satisfied dominance that was chillingly calm.

Eva stayed bent over the desk, gasping, her body shaking with aftershocks. Jax smoothed her hair, then gently lowered her skirt, zipping his trousers with a quiet finality.

"Go now," he whispered, his voice laced with triumph. "Think about what I offered. Think about what we can build." He kissed the nape of her neck, a terrifyingly tender gesture. "And think about what you want to tell Erik. Because you know he's heard everything."

Eva stumbled away from the desk, her legs weak, the skin on her belly still tingling from his touch. She was furious at his manipulation, disgusted by her own body's response, and terrifyingly confused. He had shown her a sliver of the kind of man he could be, a man who might be worth the sacrifice. The memory of his caress, the focus on her maternal past, warred against the metallic tang of shame in her mouth.

She left the office without another word, her mind spinning, the positive test forgotten on his desk. She was shaking, exhausted, and utterly incapable of making a final decision. The only certainty was that she needed to escape.

—------------------------------------------------

Eva stumbled out of Jax’s office, the heavy mahogany door clicking shut behind her with chilling finality. Her legs were weak, her mind a sickening whirl of disgust and confused, residual arousal. The encounter had left her shattered, not by ****, but by Jax’s calculated, terrifying tenderness.

His semen, thick and still warm, was slowly rolling down the slick skin of her inner thighs. The sticky residue was a mocking physical reminder of his triumph, and of the new life he had planted. The need to cleanse herself was immediate, visceral.

She found refuge in the small, sterile staff changing room on the ground floor. She locked the door, leaning her forehead against the cold metal, gulping ragged breaths. She fumbled with the skirt, letting it fall in a heap at her feet. Quickly, frantically, she grabbed a roll of cheap, industrial paper towels and wiped herself clean—scraping away the sticky evidence of the most confusing, manipulative sex of her life.

She hated the hurried, shameful cleanup, and hated the need to erase the proof of his touch before someone else saw. She used the paper to scrub at her hips, her thighs, until the skin was red and raw, but the humiliation remained.

Next came the uniform—the physical embodiment of her subservience. She dressed quickly, pulling the thin, sheer black silk over her still-trembling body. The hostess uniform was designed to be agonizingly revealing. Opaque fabric covered only her bikini line, while the rest was translucent, exposing the dark shadows of her cleavage, and revealing the pale curve of her hips. The hem stopped at an obscene height, barely covering her rear. She adjusted the low-cut neckline, pushing her breasts up into a tight, impossible curve designed to entice and distract. It was slutty, intentional, and sickening.

She emerged from the change room and moved onto the club floor, forcing a practiced, fixed smile onto her face. The noise and smoke instantly enveloped her. She moved among the tables mindlessly, serving high-priced liquor to men whose eyes immediately dropped to her exposed body.

Her work became a meditation on her dilemma. The rhythmic thud of the bass matched the frantic rhythm of her thoughts, cycling through the raw confusion Jax had manufactured. A gentle touch, a focus on her belly, a promise of family. Had she wanted it? Had her body betrayed her and felt a flicker of hope?

But the reality was the stench of stale ****, the greedy eyes of the patrons, and the knowledge of the human trafficking operating in the back rooms and basement. The maternal instincts Jax had weaponized warred with the stark, harsh reality that this city devoured anyone without power—including her own son, if she allowed this chaos to continue.

She approached a table crowded with loud, drunk investors. As she leaned in to set down their glasses, a thick, hairy hand clamped onto her hip, fingers digging in. Simultaneously, another man reached out, cupping her breast through the flimsy silk.

Eva froze.

In that single, crystalline moment, her mind went cold. The powerful muscles in her arm coiled, ready. It would take no effort. A sharp twist of the wrist, a sudden flare of her strength, and both hands would snap at the joint. She could feel the fragile bones yielding in her mind, the rush of adrenaline begging for release, for the sweet, brutal justice of The Shadow.

No.

The consequence flashed: a broken patron means police interest, which means an investigation, which means her identity is exposed, which means the League's enemies - her old enemies find her, which means Erik is dragged into the open fire.

She **** her body to go slack. She **** her smile wider, though her lips trembled. "Careful, Sirs," she murmured, her voice saccharine, empty of threat. She subtly leaned away, but the hand on her breast squeezed tight before reluctantly letting go.

"Good girl," the man grunted, his breath smelling of expensive scotch. The other man delivered a harsh, open-handed spank to her ass that echoed sharply in the booth.

Eva bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, using the small pain to anchor herself. She endured the rest of the moment, her humiliation absolute, until a wad of sticky hundred-dollar bills was shoved into her cleavage.

She smoothed the bills, smiled again, and walked away, her entire body screaming betrayal. The humiliation of being objectified, touched, and paid for while she was pregnant with a monster's child—it was the final straw. She had to end this.

Finally, her shift was over. She returned to the changing room, stripping off the oppressive silk and pulling on her anonymous trench coat and under it her regular top with skirt. Outside the back entrance, the guard—a large man named Gus who had always been surprisingly kind—offered a ride.

"Streets are getting worse tonight, Eva," he warned, his eyes scanning the alley. "Some creeps might follow you home."

"Thank you, Gus," she said, managing a tired smile. "But I'll be fine. Just tired."

She refused him, knowing she couldn't risk the slow, predictable route of a car. The moment she was out of sight, she used the speed and stealth she had honed for years, moving through the labyrinthine alleys like smoke, easily evading the shadows that often lurked near the club's staff exits. She was home in minutes, safe, silent, and undetected.

Once inside the quiet apartment while Erik was in his room, she collapsed onto the couch. The silence was immediate, heavy, allowing her mind to clear.

The decision had to be made now.

She weighed the two options again:

The League: Clean, safe procedure. But she would owe them, be **** to Cindy's demands, and risk exposing Erik to the enemies of the league she had put away.

Illegal Clinic: High medical risk, terrifying surroundings. But absolute, total secrecy and freedom from the League's leverage.

She ran a hand over her abdomen. She knew Jax could not **** her to carry his baby. If her mind was truly made up, she could crush him, use her power to secure the termination and walk away. But walking away meant losing the shield he provided in Darklight, leaving Erik **** to the same forces that preyed on the missing heroines.

She needed the shield. Therefore, she needed silence.

Illegal Clinic. It was the only choice that guaranteed Erik's safety from the outside world.

As for Jax, she knew he would protest. But the conversation couldn't be a fight for permission. It had to be a statement of fact.

Eva stood, resolute. She would tell him she was terminating the pregnancy, and she would frame it as a shared decision—"If you won't be there, I'll go alone"—to gauge his reaction and his capacity for interference. Erik would remain ignorant. He didn't need to know the horror of the back-alley clinic or the depths of her sacrifice.

The thought of keeping such a seismic event a secret from her son felt like a fresh, raw wound of guilt. She was deceiving him, lying to protect him, but the deceit was the price of his life.

Eva closed her eyes, overwhelmed, but satisfied with the brutal logic of her decision. She was doing this for Erik.

The final, cold realization settled over her: Jax's anger was inevitable. If he was to remain her shield, his fury could not be allowed to fester. She had broken his heart's desire; she would have to soothe his wounded ego.

I need to appease him.

The thought was a crushing weight of necessity. She knew what he wanted. She knew how to get his approval, his protection, and his dangerous, possessive loyalty.

Eva walked toward her room, already mentally preparing for the next act of submission. She would have to find a way to make it up to him. She would have to find a way to make him forget his loss in the depths of her body. That was the only path back to peace.

—---------------------------------------

To be continued ……..