Page 182 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I reached his bedroom door and shoved it open without knocking. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. Syx was in the bed, thrashing violently, his body twisting against the sheets like he was fighting something—or someone.

“No! No!Get off me!” His voice was hoarse, broken, barely recognizable.

“Syx!” I crossed the room in three strides and grabbed his shoulders, trying to hold him still. “Syx, wake up!”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, his face contorted in terror, sweat pouring down his temples. His hands clawed at the air, pushing against something invisible.

“Get off—I can’t breathe—Mama?—”

My chest tightened.

“Syx, it’s me. It’s Yaya. Wake up!” I shook him harder, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

He jerked violently, his elbow catching me in the ribs. I gasped but didn’t let go.

“Syx!” I leaned closer, my voice sharper now. “You’re dreaming! Wake up!”

His breathing was ragged, panicked, his chest heaving like he was drowning. His hands shot up and grabbed my wrists, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

“I can’t! She’s—she’s on top of me—I can’t breathe?—”

“Syx, look at me!” I yanked one hand free and cupped his face, forcing his head toward me. “Open your eyes! You’re not there. You’re here! You’re safe!”

For a moment, nothing changed. He kept thrashing, kept fighting, his grip on my other wrist bruising.

Then his eyes flew open.

Wide. Unfocused. Terrified.

He stared at me like he didn’t know who I was, his chest still heaving, his body trembling.

“It’s me,” I said softly, my thumb brushing against his cheek. “It’s Yaya. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His breathing slowed—just slightly—but his eyes were still wild, still searching for something that wasn’t there.

“Yaya?” His voice cracked on my name.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

He blinked, and I watched the terror slowly drain from his face, replaced by something worse.

Shame.

He released my wrist and sat up abruptly, pulling away from me. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, his locs falling forward to hide his face.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Fuck.”

I sat on the edge of the bed beside him, close but not touching. My ribs ached where his elbow had caught me, but I ignored it.

“You’re okay,” I said quietly.

“I’m not.” His voice was flat, hollow. “I’m not okay.”

I didn’t argue. What was the point?

We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Finally, he lifted his head and looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted.