Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 510

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 510

I find the cabinet under the sink and pull out the stack of clean towels I keep there—the old ones, the soft ones, the ones too worn for guests but perfect for moments like this.

Warm water runs over my hands.

I watch it swirl down the drain, pink-tinged, carrying away the evidence of what just happened in my living room. I soak the towels and wring them out. Not too wet. Not too dry.

When I come back, Alexander has stopped crying. He’s still pressed against Kyle’s chest, his eyes half-open and unfocused, staring at nothing.

“Here.” I kneel beside the whelping box. “Let me show you how.”

I lift the first puppy—the smallest one, the fighter—and begin to clean it.

The fur is softer than I expected. Softer than Gas’s fur, softer than anything. The puppy makes a sound when I run the warm towel over its back—a small mewl, half protest, half confusion.

“You’re okay,” I tell it. “You’re okay, little one. We’re just cleaning you up.”

“Can I try?” Ethan asks.

I hand him a towel and show him the motion—gentle strokes, following the direction of the fur, careful around the face and belly. He copies it exactly. Of course he does. Ethan never does anything halfway.

“Like this?”

“Perfect.”

“The optimal pressure appears to be approximately—”

“Ethan.”

“—right. Less data, more doing.”

Gas lifts her head.

Her eyes find mine. She doesn’t interfere. She just watches. Trusting.

I reach out and stroke her head. The fur there is damp, matted in places. She needs cleaning too. But that can wait. Right now, she just needs to know we’re helping. That we’re on her side.

“Good girl,” I murmur. “Such a good girl.”

Her tail moves. Weak, but there.

Madison comes to my side.

“Can I help?”

Her voice is barely a whisper—the kind you use in churches, in hospitals, in places where something sacred is happening.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

I hand her a towel. Her fingers curl around it—small, careful fingers. The puppy squirms in her hands, a blind little creature searching for something it can’t name. Madison’s touch gentles it. Stills it.

“It’s warm,” she says, surprised.

“They all are. That’s how we know they’re okay.”

“It feels like… like holding a heartbeat.”

My small girl, who came to us broken and is slowly, piece by piece, learning how to be whole. Her dark hair has slipped loose from its braid. There are shadows under her eyes. She looks exhausted. She also looks more alive than I’ve ever seen her.

“That’s exactly what it is,” I say.

We clean all six puppies.

It takes longer than it should—partly because we’re tired, partly because we’re careful, partly because Alexander insists on holding each one and saying encouraging things before handing it back to its mother.

“You’re a champion,” he tells the second one, a dark brown puppy with a white patch on its chest. “A true champion. Did you know that? Your brother almost died and you were RIGHT THERE supporting him. That’s what siblings do.”

“They couldn’t actually provide support,” Ethan says.

“EMOTIONAL support, Ethan.”

The third puppy is mostly black with tan markings on its face. The fourth is golden, like its mother, with paws that seem too big for its body. The fifth is a mix of brown and white, with a darker streak along its spine. The sixth—the smallest of the healthy ones—is a pale cream color that catches the morning light.

And then there’s the first one.

The fighter.

I pick it up last and cradle it in my palm. I feel the tiny heart beating—faster than seems possible, more a flutter than a thump. Its fur has finally dried, revealing a pattern I couldn’t see before: dark gray, almost black, with a small white star on its chest.

“That one’s special,” Alexander says. He’s standing beside me now, his eyes locked on the puppy in my hand. “Because it didn’t give up.”

“They’re all special.”

“Yeah, but that one’s EXTRA special.”

I place the puppy back with its siblings. It immediately starts rooting, searching for its mother, for warmth, for the milk that will help it grow strong enough to open its eyes and see the world it fought so hard to enter.

“Now Gas,” Ethan says.

Gas hasn’t moved. She’s been lying there through the whole process, her head resting on her paws, her breathing slow and steady. But she’s awake. I can see it in the way her eyes track each puppy, the way her nostrils flare when we bring them close, the way her body relaxes every time one is placed back beside her.

She’s been counting. Making sure they all come back.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

The towel has cooled, so I wring out a fresh one and warm it under the tap before kneeling beside the whelping box.

Gas’s eyes meet mine.

“Hey, girl,” I say softly. “Your turn. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She doesn’t resist when I start wiping down her fur. She just lies there, occasionally shifting to give me better access.

Her belly is still swollen, but softer now—the emptiness where six puppies used to be. Blood and fluid have matted her fur, and I work through it gently, cleaning away the evidence of labor.

“You did so good,” I tell her. “Six babies. All healthy. All alive.”

Her tail wags. Weak, but real.

“The first one scared us. I know it scared you too. But look—” I nod toward the pile of puppies. “Look at them. All of them. Eating, breathing, growing. Because of you.”

Gas lifts her head. I finish cleaning her, set aside the dirty towels, and make a mental note to start laundry later—when I can feel my legs again, when the world stops tilting slightly at the edges.

“There,” I say, stroking her head one last time. “All done. Now rest. You’ve earned it.”

Gas sighs—a deep, long exhale, the kind dogs let out when they finally release tension they didn’t realize they were holding. Her eyes close.

Within seconds, she’s asleep.

“We need to name them.”

Alexander’s voice breaks the quiet. He’s sitting on the couch now—when did he get on the couch?—his legs tucked under him, his back pressed against Kyle’s arm. Kyle is beside him, eyes half-closed, head tipped back against the cushions.

“Name them?” Ethan asks. He’s on the floor, cross-legged, close enough to the whelping box to monitor the puppies’ breathing. I’m not sure he realizes he’s doing it. It’s just Ethan, collecting data, even when he’s exhausted.

“Yeah. Name them. They’re babies. Babies need names.”

“They’re dogs.”

“Dogs are babies. Dog babies. And dog babies need names just like human babies do.”

Madison is on my lap. I don’t remember how she got there. One moment I was leaning against the coffee table, and the next she was climbing up, settling into the space between my chest and knees, Eleanor wedged between us.

“He’s right,” she says quietly. “They should have names.”

Kyle shifts. “I have a suggestion,” he says.

Everyone looks at him.

“There are six puppies.” His voice is rough, scratchy—the voice of someone who hasn’t slept and spent the night reassuring a child who needed to believe everything would be okay. “And there are three of you. Two puppies each. You each get to name two.”

Alexander’s face lights up.

“That’s PERFECT. That’s—that’s democracy. That’s FAIR.”