Page 119 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

Kaisen was dead weight, but I’d moved bodies heavier than his. I slid one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees, and lifted him from the bed. His head lolled against my chest, his breathing slow and steady.

I lowered him into the wheelchair and adjusted his position, so he looked like a patient being transported. I draped a blanket over his lap, covering the hospital gown and the bandages.

Then I wheeled him toward the door.

The hallway was still empty. The nurses were still buried in their work. I pushed the wheelchair past the station without slowing, my expression neutral, my movements calm.

One of the nurses glanced up. “Transferring him?”

“Imaging,” I said without stopping. “Doctor’s orders.”

She nodded and went back to her screen.

I took the elevator down to the first floor, wheeled him through the lobby, and out the automatic doors into the humid night air.

The parking garage was just as empty as before. I pushed the wheelchair to my car, opened the back door, and lifted Kaisen inside. His body slumped across the seat, his head resting against the window.

I closed the door and returned the wheelchair to the rack near the entrance.

Then I got in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the garage.

Kaisen didn’t move. Didn’t wake. Didn’t know where he was going.

But he would.

Soon enough, he’d wake up in the dark, in a space too small to stand, with nothing but concrete and steel and the knowledge that his brother had buried him alive.

And he’d understand—finally—that some things couldn’t be taken.

Some things were permanent.

I turned onto the highway, heading back toward the lake, and didn’t look back.

The drive back to the lake took forty minutes. The highway was empty at this hour—just me, the hum of the engine, and Kaisen’s unconscious body slumped in the backseat. I checked the rearview mirror twice. His head lolled against the window, his breathing shallow but steady. The propofol would keep him under for hours. Long enough.

I turned off the main road onto the gravel path that led to the lakehouse property. The trees closed in on both sides, thick and dark, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out the moonlight. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the narrow trail ahead. No streetlights. No houses. No witnesses.

I’d bought this land years ago under a shell company—two hundred acres of dense forest and wetland that nobody wanted. Too remote. Too wild. Perfect.

The lakehouse sat on the front end of the property, visible from the water, accessible by the main road. But the back end—the part that stretched deep into the woods—was mine alone. I’d walked every inch of it. Mapped it. Prepared it.

And buried something in it that no one would ever find unless I wanted them to.

I parked the car at the edge of the trail where the gravel ended, and the dirt path began. The engine ticked as it cooled. I sat there for a moment, listening to the silence. No sounds except the cicadas and the distant rustle of leaves.

I got out and opened the back door. Kaisen hadn’t moved. His face was slack, peaceful almost, like he was just sleeping off a long night. I grabbed him under the arms and pulled him from the car, letting his weight settle against me. He was heavier than I remembered—muscle and bone and all that arrogance compressed into dead weight.

I adjusted my grip and started walking.

The trail was narrow, barely wide enough for one person. Roots jutted up from the ground, and low-hanging branches scraped against my shoulders as I moved deeper into the woods. I’d walked this path a hundred times, knew every turn, every dip in the terrain. My boots crunched against the dirt and fallen leaves. Kaisen’s feet dragged behind me, his shoes scraping against the ground.

The air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavy. Mosquitoes buzzed around my head, but I ignored them. My focus was singular. Mechanical.

After ten minutes, the trail opened into a small clearing. It wasn’t much—just a patch of dirt surrounded by denseundergrowth and towering pines. In the center of the clearing was a flat concrete slab, about six feet by six feet, flush with the ground. Moss had started to grow along the edges, blending into the landscape. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past it.

But I knew.

I’d poured that concrete myself three years ago. Reinforced it with rebar. Built the structure beneath it with my own hands. It had taken weeks—digging, mixing, setting, sealing. Priest thought I was working on a hunting cabin. Winston thought I was wasting time on hobbies.