Page 48 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

As the doctor processes the test, a heavy silence falls between Mikhail and me. This possibility of pregnancy is terrifying, threatening to shatter what little stability remains in my world.

He’s uncharacteristically hesitant when he speaks. “If you are... if we are...”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t. Not yet. We don’t know anything for sure.”

He nods, respecting my wish for silence. We wait, the minutes crawling by with agonizing slowness.

Finally, Dr. Falkav returns. His expression is neutral, giving away nothing. “I have your urine test results, Miss MacKenzie.”

I square my shoulders, preparing myself. “And?”

“The test confirms it. You’re pregnant. You’ll need more bloodwork and or an ultrasound to pinpoint?—”

“Five weeks,” I say softly. “It has to be five weeks.” That was the time when we were so caught up in each other that we forgot the condom. “Pregnant,” I whisper, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.

Mikhail makes a sound, half-gasp, half-groan. I turn to look at him, seeing my own shock mirrored in his expression.

The doctor clears his throat. “I’ll give you two some privacy to discuss this. Miss MacKenzie, I’ll leave you with some prenatal vitamins and information about early pregnancy care. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or concerns.”

I nod numbly, barely registering as the doctor excuses himself. My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat beneath my shirt. A baby. Mikhail’s baby. Our baby.

“Phoebe,” he says softly, reaching for my hand. “Are you all right?”

I laugh, the sound bordering on hysterical. “All right? How can I be all right? I’m pregnant with the child of a man I barely know, a man who lied to me about everything. I’m trapped on a yacht in the middle of the ocean, running from God knows what danger, and now there’s a baby involved?” Tears spring to my eyes, hot and angry. “This is insane. All of it.”

Mikhail’s face crumples with guilt and something else—fear, maybe—flashing in his eyes. “I know this isn’t how either of us planned things, but I’ll keep you and our child safe.”

“Our child,” I repeat, the words sounding strange. “I don’t even know if I want children, and now I’m having one with a man who... who...”

“Who loves you,” he finishes, his voice fierce. “Whatever else you may think of me, Phoebe, never doubt that. I love you, and I’ll love this child.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. “I can’t... I can’t think about this right now. I need some time alone.”

He nods, reluctantly releasing my hand. “Of course. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”

As he walks away, I curl into myself on the lounge chair, one hand still resting on my stomach. Masha whines softly, resting her head on my knee. I stroke her head, and my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Pregnant. With Mikhail’s child. The future I once imagined—my cooking school, my simple life in Miami—seems impossibly far away now. Instead, I’m faced with a reality I never could have predicted—carrying the child of a Russian mafia boss and caught in a world of danger and deceit.

I tossand turn all night, sleep eluding me as my mind races with the effects of my pregnancy. The gentle rocking of the yacht, once soothing, now only serves to intensify my nausea. As dawn breaks, I give up on rest and slip out of bed.

The cool wood of the deck is a welcome sensation against my bare feet as I step outside. I inhale the salt-tinged air deeply, trying to clear my head. The vastness of the ocean stretchesbefore me as if to taunt me that I’m a prisoner here with the father of my child. A Russian mafiadon. No,bratva, I remind myself and whimper softly.

“Phoebe.”

Mikhail’s voice startles me. I turn to find him standing a few feet away, his usually impeccable appearance slightly disheveled. Dark circles under his eyes suggest his night was as restless as mine. “Mikhail.” My voice is hoarse from lack of sleep and unshed tears.

He takes a tentative step forward. “May I join you?”

I nod, turning back to the ocean. We stand in silence for a moment, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the yacht the only sound between us.

“I owe you an apology,” he says finally. “My behavior...trying to force you to stay here... It was wrong. I was afraid, and I reacted poorly.”

I glance at him, surprised by the raw honesty in his tone.

He dips his head as if acknowledging my shock. “I have no right to make decisions for you. If you wish to return to the mainland, I’ll arrange it immediately.”

My heart stutters at his words. “You’d let me go?”

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