Page 33 of Forced & Knocked-Up Bratva Bride

But to my biggest surprise, Nik was in no way disgusted by my body, nor was he trying to shame my figure. The way he looked at me, the affection and passion in his eyes, stirred up feelings I thought I’d buried—feelings I’d refused to face, to name.

And his touch—my God!

I’d almost forgotten how good he was with his hands. And the other night, he showed me just how great he was with his tongue, too. Even now, the thought of his tongue parting my folds still sent shivers down my spine.

The way his hands caressed my skin, the way his lips devoured mine with an intense fervency, had left me breathless. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d missed his touch until his hands roamed my body. The rich scent of his cologne still lingered around me till now—a constant reminder that I couldn’t easily escape him.

Nik Tarasov had been living in my mind since that night, and I hated how my whole body craved him. It was almost like I had no control over my own thoughts, over my own desires. He was an evil man—the same one responsible for the misfortunethat befell my family. I should hate him, his touch should repulse me, and I shouldn’t want anything to do with him. But sadly, that wasn’t the case.

I’d promised to do all that he instructed, given that I’d have the opportunity to raise my son. This commitment was supposed to be out of a sense of duty, an obligation to my unborn child. However, considering how much I enjoyed the way his possessive hands wrapped around me the last time, I wasn’t so sure that was the only reason anymore.

Whatever happened between us that night was not supposed to mean anything at all. It wasn’t supposed to be such a big deal. But if that were true, why couldn’t I get him out of my head? Why did I constantly fall back on the memories of how he treated me delicately in an attempt to escape my reality?

It didn’t matter how well I lied to myself; I knew deep down that I missed him. I missed not only his touch but also the way he looked at me like he knew I belonged to him. For a rugged and ruthless man, he sure knew how to be gentle with a woman, and I missed that, too. I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself.

He somehow managed to make me feel like I mattered to him, like I actually had a place in his life. His touch, his kisses, and his caresses at the time had deluded me into thinking that there was a part of him that cared for me. Nik had made it clear that he had a fiancée, a woman he was ready to settle down with. And yet, I let myself be used by him. Yes, I didn’t like that woman—what was her name again? Helen? Still, I shouldn’t have betrayed her like that.

Was I just an object used to scratch his itch? Did this mean that he’d turned me into a sex worker in exchange for my presence in our son’s life? What was the guarantee that he’d truly considered my proposal?

The guilt of having an affair with another woman’s husband-to-be gnawed at me, raw and relentless.

Since that fateful night, my head had been really noisy, and I hadn’t found a way to make the voices quiet down a little. I was torn apart on the inside, unsure of anything, not even waking up the next morning. My mind was flooded with a million different thoughts, different scenarios, and possible ways this madness could end. Would there even be an Alessia Romano in the end?

At some point, it felt like I was going insane—like I was losing my mind. Somehow, being trapped in this mansion, coupled with how complicated things had become, now felt like a fate worse than death. I was entangled in this web of madness, and there was no one coming to save me.

It was as though I was falling off a cliff without a safety net at the bottom. There was no one to catch me, and with each passing day, I fell deeper and deeper into this abyss of trouble.

The walls were suffocating—draining the very life out of me—and I had to fight every day to stay sane. This darkness in my life was like nothing I’d ever seen, and it was closing in on me, threatening to drown me. Gradually, my hope was starting to fade, dissipating into thin air with each breath I took. In a place like this, hope was dead; it didn't exist. The only things that did were pain, agony, and depression.

I was already dealing with the complications that came with being pregnant: aching muscles, headaches, waist pain, mood swings, unprovoked anger, emotional instability, and so on and so forth. Now, I had to add this charade with Nik to the long list of things that weighed me down physically and mentally.

I barely slept and barely ate—all I did was think and cry. But I hated that routine because nothing good came out of it. Dad didn’t raise me to be a weakling, and he didn’t teach me toweep over my situation. No, he did not. My father taught me to be strong and to always be strategic in my thinking. He would be disappointed if he saw me in this state—pathetic and miserable.

To clear my head, I decided to take a walk around the house, wandering through the mansion with slow, quiet steps. I brushed my fingertips over the edge of the banister as I passed, my mind brewing a million and one things at once.

The walls here were cold and grand, soaked in silence, yet the warmth of something familiar drifted through the air. I paused mid-step, nose lifting slightly.

A scent.

Savory, rich, and meaty with a touch of spice and warmth beneath it, like garlic and butter mingling while being cooked. My stomach growled, rumbling beneath my palms, and my mouth watered in anticipation.

Drawn in by the aroma, like a moth to a flame, I followed it down the corridor, through a wide archway, and into the kitchen. The space was wide, with natural light spilling through the windows. The soft glow of the hanging chandelier glinted off the polished marble floor and granite countertops, adding to the ambience of the space.

A woman stood at the stove, sturdy and graceful in a way that only years of experience could make someone. Her silky black hair was streaked with white silver and tied up into a bun on top of her head. She hummed a song, subtly moving her portly body to the rhythm of her tune.

She seemed happy and at peace—the kind of peace that I craved. Her fingers worked with a rapid blur of movement, the knife rhythmically thudding against the chopping board as she sliced through the vegetables with ease.

She turned around, and her hand darted to her chest, her eyes wide with shock. “Oh, my God!” The soft exclamation left her lips, and a small smile spread across her face. “Miss Alessia, Ididn’t hear you come in,” she said, her voice tinged with a gentle Russian accent.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I apologized, strolling into the kitchen, the sweet aroma teasing my nostrils. “What’re you making?” I asked, curious.

“Um….” She beamed, clearing her throat. “Pelmeni.” She gestured to the flour-covered counter where small dumplings sat in neat rows.

“Pelmeni. What’s that?” I asked, stepping closer to the stove.

“Meat dumplings,” she replied, her light blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Very traditional. We mix pork and beef with onion and pepper. Nothing too strong for a baby.” She chuckled, her gaze dropping to my belly. “Then we fold dough like this—see….” She pinched the edges of a circle, sealing in the filling.

As she spoke and demonstrated with her actions, my smile seemed to widen at the enthusiasm in her tone. I felt really good talking to her, and I couldn’t help but wonder what such a sweet soul was doing working for the devil.

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