Page 27 of Bratva Beast

“I need something easy on my stomach: crackers, dry toast.”

He walks us into the bedroom and places me gently on the side of the bed. He picks up his phone. “Bring saltines and juice to my room.”

I glare. “You could use a ‘please’.”

“No.” He kisses my forehead. “Should you get back into bed?”

“I think I’ll take a quick shower.”

“No.”

“What is this ‘no’?”

He crinkles his forehead. “You need to eat before you do anything else.”

The bell chimes, and he steps into the other room to wait for Mrs. Belova. He steps back into the bedroom with a tray. He prattles off a perfect English accent. “Your food, milady.”

“It’s amazing how much you sound like a Brit.”

“I am a Brit. Well half-Brit. Thanks to mom.” He frowns. “She would have been so excited to have a grandchild.”

I nibble on a cracker. “The total opposite of what Papa is going to think.”

“Eh. He’ll get over it.” He walks into the shower, calling out over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll just knock him off early.”

“The things you say.”

“He wouldn’t like that anymore than the things I do.”

Chapter 8

CYNRIC

I’m standing in the warehouse glaring down at Wystan, who is chatting up the new little drug mule. She’s exactly his type. A waif of a thing with no brain and no conscience. My mind goes back to dropping Isabella at the hospital. She’s got her morning sickness down to a simple plan. She eats before she puts her feet on the ground and avoids any smell she doesn’t like. Thane, the brother closest to my age, wasn’t happy when I put him at the hospital. He’s the new security guard. He’d just gotten back from his latest stint in Latin America and wasn’t looking for any job, let alone a job at a hospital. Fingers hacked their system and created the new job and put Thane in it.

“Wystan. Stop fucking around. Send her out.”

Wystan flicks his head at Papa as the old man looks up at me. He grumbles as he turns to walk up the stairs. “When were you going to tell me you ruined my ward?”

Here we go. “I didn’t think I had to tell you. I assumed you would know.”

He grits his teeth and grabs the bottle of vodka on the table. “And I do.” He starts a Russian diatribe about loyalty and women. Finally, coming to a stop, he shakes his head. “It got you out of that fucking tomb you were in.”

“She did that.”

“I hope she’ll bring you happiness like your mother gave me.”

“She is.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Give me a grandson.”

I smirk.

He blows out his breath. “Fuck, she’s already pregnant? Jesus. That’s fast.”

“Coming from the man who got my mother pregnant the very first time.”

His fat finger hits my chest. “I married her.”

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