Page 16 of Forced & Knocked-Up Bratva Bride

“So, what, all of a sudden you grew a heart?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest, my shoulder leaning against the door frame.

Nik didn’t respond, nor did he look back to face me. He just puffed another round of smoke.

“Why?” I continued regardless. “Why the sudden ‘kindness’?” I air-quoted the word.

Without turning to face me, he answered, his voice low and husky, “You were sick. I helped. No big deal.” He dragged on his cigar, and after releasing the smoke, Nik added, “Besides, I couldn’t let my prize die under my watch.”

I didn’t see his face, but I was certain that a sly smirk had lined his lips upon that last statement.

My expression darkened ever so slightly, and a scoff left me. “What? Am I supposed to say thank you?” I questioned, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, annoyingly nonchalant to the mockery in my voice.

I rolled my eyes. “A fever was never going to kill me.”

Finally, he turned around to face me, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “Right. Tell that to the ghost I almost called a priest for,” he said, his tone dry and witty, though his gaze remained carefully neutral as if unaffected by my exposed skin.

A light chuckle escaped my lips. “You were worried. That’s cute.”

His expression softened ever so slightly, and his gaze dropped to my cleavage for a second before meeting my eyes.

I drew in a sharp breath and walked toward the edge of the balcony, feeling the wind on my face. The scent of fresh flowers wafted through the air, blending with the sound of distant sirens. I felt his gaze lingering while I cast my eyes across the night sky, the cityscape sprawling in front of me.

The atmosphere was thick with tension, and the silence between us seemed to stretch forever. I stole a glance in his direction, and something shifted in his eyes; his gaze, once so indifferent, now held a glint of something like hesitation.

Was he uncomfortable by my presence?

The silence stretched, humming with tension. Maybe it was the vulnerability of last night or the raw ache still threading through my limbs. I had to say something, though. I had to engage him in order to fill the awkward silence.

“You think it impossible for a man like me to be kind,” he said, his husky voice low and even. “Why is that?”

A small grin tugged at the corners of my lips, pleased and relieved that he made a move to start a conversation. That was progress.

I turned around and met his gaze, my voice barely above a whisper. “Men like you aren’t known for their…kindness.” I leaned back against the railing.

“I smell a story behind your conviction,” he said, his eyes narrowing by a hair’s breadth.

I paused for a while, avoiding his gaze, as buried memories of my childhood came flooding back into my mind. My breath hitched, and I swallowed, heaving a sigh.

His gaze lingered on me, eyes glued to my face as if anticipating my response. I hadn’t revisited this memory in a long while, and doing so now would only dig up past trauma. Was I ready for that? Maybe not. But having this conversation with Nik was the first step in the execution of my plan.

I looked away for a second, eyes dropping to the floor before meeting his gaze again. “My Mom, she, uh…she passed away when I was little.” The brief pause crept in when I cleared my throat, bracing myself for this trip down memory lane. “I watched her die,” I murmured.

His expression hardened almost imperceptibly, not in cruelty but in stillness. The kind of stillness that listened. “Was she sick?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

I nodded. “For months.” For a few seconds, I was silent, struggling with my own emotions—the pain and heartbreak creeping back in. “My father didn’t care. He never did, actually.” My shoulders shrugged reflexively. “He said pain made people weak, that love was nothing but a distraction.” I paused again, watching him in silence.

I could tell from the look in his eyes that, for once, he and my dad agreed on one thing—the concept of pain and love. Of course, they’d have the same opinion on these concepts, given the type of life they lived.

“Mom died in silence, in a house full of noise. And yet no one stopped to hear her because weakness was not toleratedin the Romano family.” My voice cracked by a fraction, but I wouldn’t give in to the pain. “It was in that moment that I realized strength was non-negotiable and kindness was a word that didn’t exist in the mafia dictionary.” I exhaled sharply, blinking back the tears that stung my eyes. “So, yes, watching my kidnapper care for me is…surprising.”

“That’s understandable,” he said, closing the distance between us, his voice low and husky. “But you’re wrong. I don’t care for you, and what I did was not an act of kindness,” he added, drawing too close to me.

I lifted my eyes to meet his face, my pulse quickening as the air slowly became electric with tension. “Oh, yeah? Try saying that with a little more conviction, and I just might believe you.” The words came out in a gentle whisper, my tone soft and endearing.

He cornered me by the railing, his hand extending to caress my face. His touch was tender, and the rich scent of his cologne enveloped me. My eyes dropped to his shirtless body—his broad torso, lean and defined, the kind of build sculpted not from vanity but from habit. His chest was firm, his skin warm-toned and slightly rough from all the scars that mapped his body.

I could feel his gaze lingering, his fingers gliding down my arm, each touch stealing my breath away. My chest heaved slowly, and my heart raced with anticipation as I drank in the sight of his gorgeous form. His abs were taut and well-shaped, each line carved with effortless precision, leading into a V that sank below the waistband of his joggers.

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