The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 512

Chapter 251-2

Chapter 251-2

Underneath my palm, a soft, faint flutter stirs. A tiny, rhythmic shift deep inside my womb.

Our baby is moving; I feel it for the first time.

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And the father, the love of my life, isn’t here to lay his huge hand across my stomach and feel it.

Pushing down hard on that thought, I turn away from the door and take my first steps down the

hallway, to the living room.

It’s obvious that the penthouse isn’t a home right now. It’s a mausoleum. It’s a vast, glass–enclosed gallery of fresh, glowing memories preserved under glass, suddenly stripped of the soul that buil

1. it.

My eyes sweep across the dim space, and every single corner, every piece of furniture, erupts with

ghosts.

Over by the sprawling leather sofa sits the heavy dining table. During a midnight thunderstorm, I couldn’t sleep I came come out here to sit in the dark, watching the lightning strike across the city

skyline.

Locke came out of the master bedroom quiet as a shadow, lifting me by my thighs with that effortless, terrifying strength, setting me right on the edge of that table. I remember the heat of his hands sliding up the insides of my thighs, his broad, calloused palms spreading my knees wide as

he stepped between them.

He pinned me against his chest, his mouth taking mine with a desperate, feverish devotion that left me breathless. His tongue parted my lips, dark and possessive, while his knuckles dragged slowly down the front of my robe, parting the fabric to expose my skin to his mouth.

He buried his face in the swell of my neck, his lips hot and bruising against my pulse point,

growling low against my skin that he didn’t give a damn about anything in this world except driving himself inside me and keeping me and our baby safe.

I move deeper into the room now, my fingers dragging slowly along the cool, polished surface of

the kitchen island.

My gaze catches the faint, round mark on the stone where his heavy ceramic mug always rests. He always stands right here.

Just a few days before he was taken, he leaned against this marble with a mug of black coffee in his hand, quietly watching me try to reach the decaf coffee on the top shelf. He put his mug down with a soft click, stepped up behind me, and wrapped his huge arms around my waist, pressing his

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He slid down over my stomach, his broad hands almost completely covering the modest curve of

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