Chapter 72 The Pregnancy Reveal

Chapter 72 The Pregnancy Reveal
Ivy’s POV

Two months after the wedding

I stare at the stick in my hand like it might explode.

No—scratch that. I’m staring at it like it already has. Like it's detonated my heart, flipped my soul inside out, and left me standing in the master bathroom of Alexander’s mansion, barefoot, with my fingers trembling and my lungs refusing to breathe.

Two lines. Bold. Unapologetic.

Pregnant.

I swallow hard, my other hand gripping the edge of the marble sink. My knees feel like they might give out, and for a second I wonder if I should sit down—but I can’t. My body’s frozen. My mind is racing. My stomach twists in slow, hot spirals of fear and joy and memory.

The last time...

I press a hand against my stomach, instinctively. There’s nothing yet. No bump. Just the tiniest bloom of something new. Something terrifying. Something hopeful.

And this time, it feels different.

This time, my body doesn’t feel broken. It feels... ready. Like my heart knew before my brain did.

A quiet knock at the bathroom door yanks me out of the spiral.

“Ivy.” His voice. His voice. Low, rough, always in control—and somehow, it makes me feel like I’m both safe and unraveling at the same time. “You okay in there? You’ve been in there too long.”

Shit.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tightening. I didn’t plan how to tell him. I wasn’t even sure I’d tell him today. But I know that voice—he won’t wait much longer before he breaks down the door himself.

“Baby girl?”

“Yeah,” I call out, my voice hoarse, too damn shaky. “I’m coming out.”

I open the door slowly, hiding the test in my hand behind my back. He’s standing there in black joggers, shirtless, tattoos on full display, like some sinful god carved from shadows and power. Hair tousled. Jaw locked. Eyes zeroed in on me with that predator stillness that makes everything in my body tighten.

He narrows his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t speak. I just step closer, until I’m standing in front of him, and I press the stick to his chest.

He looks down. Frowns. Looks back up at me.

And then?

Stillness.

For half a second, the world holds its breath. His eyes move back to the test.

Then to me. Back to the test again.

I bite my lip hard enough to feel pain.

He says nothing.

“Say something,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Please.”

And then—

He drops the test an then catches my face in his hands and kisses me.

Hard. Devastating. Like the world is ending and I’m the only thing worth saving.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and I feel his chest rise and fall in ragged, hungry breaths.

“You’re pregnant?” he growls, voice wrecked and reverent all at once.

I nod, my lips barely moving. “Yeah.”

“How far?”

“About five weeks, maybe six. I didn’t... I wasn’t sure.”

“And now?”

“It’s real.” My voice breaks. “She’s real.”

His hands slide down to my waist, gripping, kneading, like he needs to feel this, to anchor himself.

A low, dangerous sound escapes his throat. “You’re carrying my baby.”

A possessive hum rumbles deep in his chest. His eyes blaze with something unholy—fierce love, hunger, obsession.

“I need to sit down,” I breathe, laughing through the overwhelming swirl of everything. “I feel dizzy.”

He catches me before I even wobble. “No sitting. You don’t do anything. You’re mine. You’re fucking carrying our baby, Ivy. You don’t lift a goddamn thing. You don’t stress. You don’t run around like a damn feral kitten. You sit, you breathe, and you let me take care of everything.”

“Feral kitten?”

“You heard me.”

I laugh, but I’m crying now, too. He brushes the tears from my cheeks like they offend him.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” I sniff. “I’m hormonal. That’s what happens now.”

“You’re beautiful when you cry, but still—” his lips brush my temple, soft, reverent, “—I’ll murder whatever makes you cry. Even hormones.”

I smirk. “That’s not how that works.”

“I’ll find a way.”

His hand slides protectively over my belly, and he drops to his knees in front of me like I’m some kind of goddess and he’s not worthy.

His lips press softly to the flat skin just above my waistband.

Then again. Then again.

“You stay in there, little one,” he murmurs against my stomach, voice full of gravel and reverence. “You hear me? Daddy’s got you.”

My knees nearly give out again.

“Alex...”

He looks up at me, and fuck, I’ll never recover from the way he looks at me right now—like I’m sacred. Untouchable. His entire world.

“You gave me everything,” he says. “And now you’re giving me more.”

His voice cracks slightly, and I swear—I’ve never seen Alexander wolfe emotional like this.

Not even at the wedding. Not even after the miscarriage.

This is different. This is hope. Healed hope.

He stands, lifting me into his arms with ease, cradling me like I’m something fragile and priceless.

“I’m calling the doctor,” he says. “We’re getting a full checkup, vitamins, everything. Then I’m calling the chef. You’re eating every two hours. No arguments.”

“Bossy.”

“Mine.”

I grin. “Can we tell Jess?”

“She’ll scream.”

“She might cry.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

And he does. He always does.

Because he’s Alexander. My husband. My Daddy.

The father of our child.

And we’ve just begun again.

To Be Continued…