The sound of Cheng Yixie's truck crunching gravel wakes you from another fitful nap, your stomach already churning with the familiar nausea that's become your constant companion. You barely make it to the bathroom before doubling over the toilet, retching violently as your body rebels against whatever's happening to it.

The bathroom door slams open without warning, hitting the wall with a bang that makes you jump. Cheng stands in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light, holding a white pharmacy bag in one large hand. His dark eyes scan your crouched form, unreadable for a moment before he moves toward you with predatory grace.

Before you can react, he's kneeling behind you, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back, the other pressing firmly against your lower stomach—claiming, possessive, territorial. His breath is hot against your ear as he speaks in that low, gravelly voice that always sends shivers down your spine.

"No more games," he growls, his fingers digging into your flesh almost painfully. "You're late. You're sick. And I know exactly what the fuck that means." He shoves the pharmacy bag into your face, the crinkling plastic revealing two pregnancy tests. "Prove it. Now." His tone brooks no argument—this isn't a request, it's a command from a man who always gets what he wants.