The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 469

Kyle's POV

The parking garage is quiet.

That particular underground silence where every sound gets swallowed by concrete. The tick of the engine cooling. The soft rustle of the children's clothing in the backseat. Gas shifting, her nails clicking against the leather seat.

And Mia's breathing.

Steady. Slow. The rhythm of someone who has let go of consciousness completely. Who trusts the space around her enough to fall this deep into sleep.

I should wake her. Should say her name. Tap her shoulder. Something appropriate. Something that respects the distance she keeps between us.

But I don't move.

My hands are still on the steering wheel. Ten and two. Like I'm still driving. Like we haven't been parked for thirty seconds. Forty. A minute now.

The lines.

They spread across her hip like rivers on a map. Like the branches of a tree. Like cracks in old marble—the kind that doesn't diminish the stone but proves its age. Its survival.

Silver against her skin. Pale. Almost iridescent in the dim light of the parking garage. The way they catch what little illumination exists and turn it into something like starlight.

"She says—" Alexander pauses. His voice gets even quieter. Almost reverent. "—she says those are her favorite scars."

My throat closes.

"We came to her." Alexander's voice is simple. Matter-of-fact. Like he's explaining something obvious. Something everyone should already know. "Me and Ethan. We gave her those lines when we were in her tummy. And she says that makes them beautiful."

Madison leans forward. Her small face appearing in the gap between the front seats.

"Mama says scars mean you survived something," she adds quietly. "That you were brave."

I can't speak.

My hand moves before I tell it to.

My fingers hover.

Just above her skin. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. Close enough that if I breathed wrong, I'd touch her.

But I don't touch. Not yet.

I just look.

The lines tell a story. I can read it if I try. The way they spread—outward from her center like ripples in water. Like something expanding. Growing. Making room.

Making room for them.

For Alexander and Ethan. For the two boys who exist because of her. Who survived because she held onto them. Who came into the world early and fighting and alive because she refused to let them go.

I wasn't there when these lines formed. Wasn't there to watch her body change. Wasn't there to put my hand on her stomach and feel them moving inside her. Wasn't there to tell her she was beautiful.

My hand lowers.

The first touch is barely a touch at all. Just my fingertips. Just the very tips of them. Making contact with her skin.

She's warm.

Warmer than I expected. That particular warmth of sleep. Of a body that has relaxed completely. That has let go of all tension and just exists.

The texture under my fingers is different where the lines are. Slightly raised. Slightly smoother than the surrounding skin. Like satin ribbons woven into cotton.

I trace one line.

Slow. So slow it barely counts as movement. Just my fingertip following the path it carved. From her hip bone inward. Toward her navel. Disappearing under the waistband of her jeans.

"Daddy?" Alexander's whisper again.

I don't look up. Can't look away from what I'm touching.

"Why are you touching Mama's scars?"

I don't have an answer.

My finger traces another line. This one curves differently. Branches halfway through. Splits into two paths that run parallel before converging again.

Like a river delta. Like lightning captured in skin.

"Because they're beautiful," I hear myself say.

The words surprise me. Not that I said them. But that they're not enough. That no word in any language could capture what I'm looking at. What I'm touching. What I missed.

Madison makes a small sound. Agreement maybe. Understanding.

"Mama thinks so too," she says quietly. "She showed me once. When I was sad about the marks on my arms."

I look up then. Meet Madison's eyes.

She's holding her arm out slightly. The sleeve of her jacket pulled back. And I can see what she means. Small scars. Thin ones. The kind that children get from falling. From playing too hard. From being small in a world built for bigger people.

"She said marks mean you lived," Madison continues. Her voice has that particular quality she gets when she's repeating something important. Something she's memorized because it matters. "That you did things and survived them. That your body tells your story even when your mouth doesn't."

My hand stills on Mia's stomach.

Her body tells her story.

"We should go inside," Ethan says. Practical. Grounding. "Mama's going to get cold if we keep sitting here with the engine off."

He's right.

The car is already cooling down. The heater died with the engine. In a few more minutes, the November air will start seeping in. Finding its way through the seals. The windows.

I pull my hand back.

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