Page 39 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

I saved her from that attack at the club. I brought her to the safest place I know and ensured her protection with the best security money can buy. I’ve stationed men who would die before letting harm come to her, so why doesn’t she feelsafe? Why does she move through my house like she’s walking through a minefield, waiting for something terrible to happen?

The monitor shows her now, sitting curled on the edge of her bed in the massive suite I had prepared specifically for her comfort. She’s wearing one of the maternity dresses Eugenie ordered from the most expensive boutique in San Francisco. The soft blue fabric drapes elegantly over the subtle curve of her belly, but she might as well be wearing prison stripes for all the comfort it seems to bring her. She shifts position frequently, as though she can’t get comfortable in the luxury that surrounds her.

I’ve barely spoken to her beyond polite inquiries about her health and whether she needs anything after that night when I made her a BLT. Every conversation feels stilted and formal, like we’re strangers conducting business instead of two people who created a life together during four days that transformed everything.

Every time I approach her, she tenses. Not obviously, because she’s too well-mannered for that, but I see it in the way her spine straightens, and her hands clasp together in front of her like she’s bracing for some kind of impact. Yesterday, when I asked about her doctor’s appointment, her knuckles went white.

This morning, when I inquired about breakfast, she stammered through her response like I was interrogating her instead of showing concern. It’s the same defensive posture she adopted at the safe house when she first arrived, except this time, she’s not drugged or confused about her circumstances.

This time, she’s simply afraid of me.

The realization sits like lead in my stomach, growing heavier each day that passes without improvement. I’ve given her everything I thought she needed to feel comfortable and secure—luxury, comfort, and protection from every conceivable threat—but none of it matters if she can’t relax enough to appreciate any of it.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years learning how to intimidate, control, and make people bend to my will through fear and force. Now I need to do the opposite, and I have no idea where to start.

Maksim walks into the study drops a manila file on my desk with more force than seems strictly necessary. The sound makes me flinch, which irritates me further. My nerves have been on edge since bringing Sabrina here, though I can’t pinpoint exactly why. He nods toward the bank of monitors showing various angles of the estate grounds and security checkpoints and offers his unsolicited opinion. “She doesn’t trust you yet.”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I drain what’s left of the vodka in my glass and continue staring at the monitor, watching the woman carrying my child look utterly miserable in lavish surroundings. The alcohol burns, but it doesn’t ease the tight knot of frustration in my chest. If anything, it makes the image on the screen sharper and more painful to watch.

Maksim sighs, and the sound carries the weight of disapproval and long experience dealing with my particular brand of stubbornness. “If you want her to stop flinching every time you speak, you have to build trust. I mean emotional safety, not just physical protection.”

“She is safe,” I say sharply, turning away from the screen to meet his steady gaze. “She’s safer than she’s ever been in her life.”

He arches a brow. “She’s safe from outside threats, absolutely, but she’s not safe from you.”

The words make me jerk like he hit me. “I’ve never hurt her.”

“Haven’t you?” He settles into the leather chair across from my desk, clearly preparing for a longer conversation than I want to have. “You’ve uprooted her entire life and brought her to a place where she knows no one and understands nothing about how things work. You’ve made her completely dependent on you for everything from food to safety to basic human contact. That’s a different kind of violence, Nikandr.”

I want to argue with him, to point out everything I’ve done has been necessary for her protection. The cameras in her apartment, the attack at the club, and the surveillance equipment we found all prove she needed someone to take care of her whether she wanted it or not. Her independence was an illusion that nearly got her and my child killed.

The image on the screen makes the argument die in my throat before I can voice it. She looks so small sitting there on the edge of that enormous bed, so lost and alone despite being surrounded by every luxury I could think to provide. Her hand rests on her stomach in that protective gesture I’ve learned to recognize, and something about the motion looks unconscious or instinctive, like she’s offering comfort to the life growing inside her because no one else is around to offer comfort to her.

As I watch, she turns toward the window, and even through the grainy security feed, I can see the longing in her posture. She wants to be anywhere but here.

“What do you suggest I do?” The question comes out rougher than I intended, scraped raw by the admission that I’m failing but desperately need to succeed.

“Talk to her. Not about security measures or prenatal vitamins or whether she’s comfortable in her suite.” He leans forward, his expression serious. “Talk to her like she’s a person whose thoughts and feelings matter to you.”

I scowl. “They do matter.”

“Then show her that, especially if you want civil co-parenting down the road.” He pauses, studying my expression with a calculating look that tells me he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “Or closer than that.”

Something flickers in my chest at his words, dangerous and warm and completely unwelcome. Something closer. The possibility of more than just shared custody and formal arrangements moves me. The thought of Sabrina choosing to stay, choosing me, not because she has to but because she wants to, causes a blinding surge of hope.

I push away the thought before it can take root. That kind of thinking leads to weakness, compromised judgment, and emotional vulnerability that gets people killed in my world. I’ve seen what happens to men who care too much about women who don’t belong in this life. They make mistakes. They hesitate at crucial moments. They end up dead, and the women they tried to protect end up worse than dead.

“This isn’t about romance, Maksim. This is about protecting my child and the woman carrying him.”

“Is it?” He raises an eyebrow. “To me, it looks like you’re trying to protect someone you care about more than you’re willing to admit.”

I hesitate buying myself time to formulate a response that doesn’t reveal more than I intend. “I care about her safety and the child’s welfare. Everything else is secondary.”

“If you say so.” His tone suggests he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Caring about someone’s safety means caring about their emotional well-being too. You can’t protect someone’s body while destroying their spirit and expect them to be grateful for it.”

The words sting because they’re true. I’ve been so focused on eliminating external threats that I haven’t considered what my methods might be doing to Sabrina herself. I thought bringing her here would make her feel secure, but instead, I’ve just traded one kind of danger for another.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I say quietly, the confession tasting like failure. “I know how to eliminate threats and neutralize enemies, to make people fear me enough to leave the things I care about alone, but I don’t know how to make someone feel safe instead of trapped.”

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