Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 508

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 508

The fourth puppy comes while Alexander is still counting.

I barely register it. My hands move on autopilot—catch, tear, clear, rub. This one fights from the first second, squirming and protesting, and I place it near Gas’s belly without really seeing it. The smell of blood and birth is thick in my nose now.

“Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine—”

Alexander’s voice has gone hoarse. Scratchy. Like he’s been yelling at a soccer game for hours.

The fifth one slides out easier than the others. Already crying before I even clear its face. Strong. Angry. Alive.

“Fifty-two, fifty-three—”

“Alexander.” Ethan’s voice cuts through. “Your hands.”

“I’m fine.”

“They’re shaking. You need to switch.”

“I said I’m fine—”

“You’re going to hurt it.”

“I don’t want to stop,” he whispers. “What if I stop—”

“It won’t be your fault.” Kyle’s voice is steady. “Nothing about this is your fault. But Ethan’s right. Your muscles are tired. Madison can take over for a few minutes.”

“But—”

“You’re not giving up. You’re being smart. There’s a difference.”

The shuffle of small bodies rearranging. A knee hitting hardwood. Someone’s elbow bumping someone else.

“Like this?” Madison’s voice is so quiet I almost miss it.

“Softer,” Ethan says. “It’s really small. Pretend you’re… pretend you’re petting a butterfly.”

“I’ve never petted a butterfly.”

“Then pretend you’re petting something you don’t want to break.”

A pause. I hear Madison breathing. Thinking.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, I can do that.”

Gas whines behind me.

I turn back to her. Her whole body is trembling now—not from contractions, but from exhaustion. She’s been at this for hours. Her tongue lolls out, pink and dry. Her eyes are half-closed, the third eyelid showing at the corners. She looks like she wants to sleep for a thousand years.

“One more, girl.” I stroke her head, her fur damp with sweat. “I think there’s one more. Can you do one more?”

She doesn’t respond. Just breathes. In and out. In and out. Her ribs rise and fall under my hand.

The sixth puppy takes forever.

Not really. Probably five minutes. But it feels endless—waiting for Gas’s body to find the strength for one more push, one more contraction, one more effort. I watch her sides tense. Release. Tense again.

Come on, I think. Come on, girl. You’re almost there.

I place the sixth puppy with the others. Five healthy puppies now, nursing and climbing over one another, making those small, mewling sounds that mean I’m hungry and I’m cold and where is everyone.

Kyle is on the floor, his back against the couch, his face gray with exhaustion. Alexander is pressed against his side, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, snot glistening under his nose. Ethan sits cross-legged nearby, his phone forgotten. Madison is bent over the tiny form in the towel, her hands moving in the rhythm Ethan taught her, her lips moving silently.

She’s counting, I realize. Counting in her head because she doesn’t want to mess up the numbers.

“Hey.” My voice comes out wrong. Scratchy. I clear my throat. “Hey, there’s six. Six puppies.”

Gas moves.

At first, I don’t understand what she’s doing. She’s so tired—her body nearly flattened against the towels, legs splayed like she couldn’t move them if she tried. But she’s pulling herself forward. Inch by inch. Her nails scrape against the plastic bottom of the whelping box, dragging her exhausted body across the bedding.

“Gas, no—” I reach for her. “Baby, you need to rest, you’re—”

She ignores me.

She keeps pulling forward until her nose reaches the corner. Until her nose finds the first puppy.

The one that hasn’t moved.

And then she starts licking.

One long, slow stroke. Her tongue drags across the puppy’s face. Then another. And another. The same motion she used on the others—the instinct that kicked in too late, the thing her body knows how to do even when her mind is overwhelmed.

She’s cleaning her baby.

The baby that might already be gone.

Madison pulls her hands back. Her eyes are huge, wet, locked on Gas’s tongue moving over the tiny body.

“Is she—” Madison’s voice breaks. “Is she saying goodbye?”

I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know if dogs say goodbye. I don’t know if Gas understands that this puppy is different—that it came out silent instead of screaming, that three children have spent seventeen minutes trying to make it breathe.

“She’s helping,” Alexander says. His voice is thick. Certain. “She’s not saying goodbye. She’s helping.”

Gas keeps licking.

Madison starts humming again. The same song—Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. The melody is thin and shaky, but steady underneath. A soundtrack to whatever is happening in the corner of my living room at five a.m. on a Thursday.

Kyle’s eyes meet mine.

What do we do?

“Mama.” Alexander’s voice is strange now—high, tight, shaking. “Mama, did you see—”

The puppy’s mouth opens.

No sound comes out. Just the mouth opening. The tiny jaw working. The chest—

Oh God.

The chest expands.

“It’s breathing.” Ethan scrambles forward, his glasses nearly slipping off. “It’s—look—the thoracic cavity is—it’s breathing—”

The puppy coughs.

A horrible sound. Wet. Choking. Wrong.

But then—

A cry.

Thin. Scratchy. Like a gate that hasn’t been opened in years. Like something rusty trying to remember how to work.

But a cry.

A real cry.

Alexander makes a sound I’ve never heard before—something between a laugh and a sob, something ripped straight from his chest. His hands fly to his mouth. His whole body shakes.

“It’s alive,” he’s saying, the words muffled by his fingers. “It’s alive. It didn’t die. It’s alive—”

Kyle pulls him in.

I watch his arm wrap around Alexander’s shoulders. Watch Alexander bury his face in Kyle’s chest and sob—every ounce of terror finally spilling out.

Kyle doesn’t say anything. He just holds on. His eyes are closed. His chin rests on top of Alexander’s head. His other arm reaches out—finds Ethan, pulls him closer. Finds Madison, who crawls into the space between them like she’s been doing it her whole life.

Holding on to each other.