The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 204

Mia's POV

"KYLE!" My scream echoed through the hospital corridor as they wheeled him away, his blood leaving a horrifying trail on the white floor. The medical team moved with terrifying urgency, their faces grim.

"BP critical at 70/30!" "He's tachycardic, pulse 140!" "Blood loss approximately two liters!" "Move, people! We're losing him!"

I lunged forward, desperate to reach him, my hands outstretched toward his motionless form. His face had turned an ashen gray, lips tinged blue, eyelids still. So still. Not like Kyle at all.

"Ma'am, STOP!" A nurse blocked my path as they rushed Kyle through swinging doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. "You can't go in there."

"He's dying!" I sobbed, my voice breaking. "He took that bullet for me!"

"If you want him to live, you need to let the surgical team work," she said firmly, gripping my shoulders. "And you—" her eyes dropped to my blood-spattered belly, "—need immediate medical attention too."

My legs gave out suddenly, pain shooting across my lower back with such intensity that I cried out, doubling over. The nurse caught me before I hit the floor.

"Get OB down here now!" she barked to another staff member. "Possible labor!"

"No," I gasped, panic clawing up my throat. " It's too early!"

The world tilted and spun as they helped me into a wheelchair. My heart hammered so violently I could feel it in my throat, my ears, behind my eyes. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

Kyle was dying. My babies were coming too soon. Everything was falling apart.

"Please," I begged.

Another wave of pain tore through me, this one worse than before, radiating from my spine around to my abdomen like a vise. I gripped the armrests of the wheelchair, a primal sound escaping my throat.

"That's definitely a contraction," the nurse said, her voice suddenly distant beneath the roaring in my ears. "Let's move!"

They rushed me toward the elevator, the fluorescent lights overhead blurring as tears streamed down my face.

"Breathe through it," the nurse instructed, pressing the elevator button repeatedly, as if that would make it arrive faster. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I tried to follow her directions, but panic had taken over. My chest heaved with hysterical sobs that I couldn't control. Blood rushed in my ears. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

The elevator finally arrived, the doors opening to reveal a medical team with a portable ultrasound machine.

"Thirty-two weeks, twins, possible preterm labor," my nurse reported crisply. "Extreme psychological distress."

"I'm Dr. Levine," a woman in scrubs announced, kneeling beside my wheelchair as we ascended. "I need to check you immediately."

"Get her into Room 4," Dr. Levine ordered. "Fetal monitors, IV access, complete labs. And page NICU—tell them we might have thirty-two-week twins coming."

"No," I moaned, gripping the sides of the wheelchair as another wave of pain crashed through me.

They transferred me to an examination table, efficiently stripping away my blood-soaked clothes despite my trembling limbs and continuing protests. Someone attached monitor belts around my swollen abdomen, and the rapid, galloping heartbeats of my sons filled the room.

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