Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 506

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 506

The world outside is holding its breath. No cars. No voices. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the soft, ragged sound of Gas panting beside me.

I’ve been sitting on the floor so long my tailbone has gone numb. My back aches. My eyes burn from not blinking enough, from staring at Gas’s swollen belly like I can will the puppies out through sheer concentration.

Gas whines again.

Not her usual whine—not the one she uses when Alexander steals the last bite of my toast, or when Ethan accidentally steps on her tail. This sound comes from somewhere deeper.

“I know, girl.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I know.”

I press my palm against her side and feel another contraction ripple beneath her fur. The muscles tighten, hold, release. Her back legs scrabble against the towels I’ve laid out. Her eyes find mine.

Dogs can’t speak, but right now, in this moment, Gas is telling me everything.

“I’m here.” I stroke the space between her ears. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

Another contraction.

Gas’s whine climbs higher, becoming something I’ve never heard from her before—a sound that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my gut.

I see it. Emerging. Wrapped in membrane, slick and glistening in the dim light of the living room lamp.

The first puppy.

I catch it—God, it’s so small, how can anything be this small—and lay it on the clean towel beside me. The amniotic sac clings to its face like a second skin. Through it, I can see the tiny sealed eyes, the folded ears, the legs that should be kicking.

They’re not kicking.

“Gas.” I look at her. “Gas, you need to clean it, you need to—”

But Gas isn’t paying attention. Her body is already contracting again, her sides heaving, another cry tearing from her throat. She’s shaking.

My fingers find the edge of the membrane. The plastic-like surface slides away from me, mocking my attempts.

Come on. Come on—

I finally catch it. Tear it open. The puppy’s face is there—so small, so perfect, so still.

I clear its nose with my pinky. Its mouth. I rub its chest with the towel the way the vet showed me, the way every website said to do it. Firm strokes. Stimulating. Encouraging.

Nothing.

“Breathe.” The word comes out broken. “Please breathe.”

The lock clicks.

For a moment, I don’t process it.

Kyle is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt and dark pants—not a hospital gown.

“You—” The word sticks in my throat. “How did you—you’re supposed to be—”

He doesn’t answer.

The water runs. He scrubs his hands—quick, efficient, no wasted motion. Then he’s beside me.

“Give me this one,” he says calmly. “You help Gas.”

The puppy leaves my hands and enters his before I can respond.

I turn back to Gas. The second puppy is coming. Her whole body shudders, exhaustion written into every movement.

“I know, girl.” I position my hands between her back legs. “I know. You’re so brave. You’re doing so good. Almost there, okay? Almost there.”

Behind me, I hear Kyle working. The sound of fabric against wet fur. A rhythmic motion—rubbing, rubbing, rubbing—that doesn’t stop.

The puppy he’s holding isn’t crying.

The second puppy slides into my hands. I catch it, already reaching for a clean towel, already tearing at the membrane covering its face. My fingers are shaking, but they find the edge.

Pull.

A wet, gasping sound.

Then a cry.

Thin and reedy and absolutely the most beautiful sound I have ever heard in my life. The puppy squirms in my hands. Kicks its tiny legs. Opens its mouth and wails its outrage at being born into a world that is cold and bright and nothing like the warm darkness it just left.

“That’s it.” I’m crying—when did I start crying? “That’s it, baby, you’re okay, you’re okay—”

I clear its nose. Its mouth. Rub it with the towel—firm strokes, like the books said, like the vet showed me in that video she sent last week that I watched seventeen times.

It cries louder. Stronger.

I place it near Gas’s belly. It immediately begins rooting, searching for warmth, for milk, for its mother.

Gas’s head lifts weakly.

Her tongue finds the puppy’s fur.

She starts to clean it, instincts finally kicking in now that the worst of the pain has passed.

One alive.

I turn to look at Kyle.

He’s still rubbing the first puppy. His movements haven’t slowed. The towel in his hands is damp now, the gray fabric darkened, heavy with absorbed fluid. His jaw is tight. His eyes are locked on the tiny form between his palms with an intensity that makes my chest ache.

“Kyle.”

He doesn’t look up.

“Kyle, is it—”

“Not yet.” His voice is rough. Barely a whisper. “Not yet.”

I watch his hands. The rhythm. The steady, relentless motion of someone who refuses to give up. Rub, rub, rub. Turn. Rub, rub, rub. He cups the puppy against his chest, using his body heat, trying to warm what has already grown cold.

“Come on,” he murmurs, talking to it now. To this tiny creature that might already be gone. “Come on, little one. Your mom is right here. Your sibling is going to need you. You don’t get to quit. Not yet.”