Page 46 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

“Do you have a preference?”

She shakes her head. “Healthy is all I care about, but I have to admit the idea of a little boy with your eyes is pretty appealing.”

Something warm and dangerous spreads through my chest at the image. A son. A child who might grow up to be strong and protective and loyal like Yaroslav was. Or a daughterwho inherits Sabrina’s courage and compassion and stubborn independence. I’d be thrilled with either. “What about names?” I ask.

“I haven’t really thought about it yet. It still feels surreal sometimes, knowing there’s a whole person growing inside me.”

“It’s not surreal to me.” I slide my hand down to rest on her belly, marveling at the subtle changes in her body. “Every time I see you, I think about them. I wonder what they’ll look like, what kind of personality they’ll have, and whether they’ll be more like you or me.”

“Hopefully more like me,” she says with a soft laugh. “The world doesn’t need another person with your particular skill set.”

The comment stings more than it should, even though I know she doesn’t mean it cruelly. “My particular skill set is what’s keeping you safe.”

She blinks, and her expression becomes serious instead of teasing. “I know. I’m grateful for that, but I want our child to have choices you never had.”

Our child. Not “my child” or “the baby,” but “our child.” The possessive pronoun does something to me, making the reality of what we’ve created feel more solid and permanent. “I can’t disagree with that,” I finally say.

We fall silent again, but it’s comfortable now, weighted with exhaustion and satisfaction and something that feels remarkably like contentment. Sabrina’s breathing evens out, and I think she’s asleep until she speaks again.

“Nikandr?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you for making me feel safe enough to let you in.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the lingering traces of our lovemaking. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

She doesn’t respond, and this time, I can tell from the rhythm of her breathing that sleep has finally claimed her. I watch her face in the moonlight, memorizing the peaceful expression that’s been so elusive during her time here.

As my eyes drift closed, I realize it’s the first time in ten years I haven’t felt alone in the world. Since Yaroslav’s death, I’ve surrounded myself with loyal men and strategic alliances, but none of it filled the hollow space where my family used to be.

Now, lying here with her curled against my chest and our child growing safely inside her, that hollow space doesn’t ache anymore. For the first time since I was twenty-four-years-old, I’m not facing the world completely alone.

The thought should terrify me. Caring this much about someone makes one vulnerable by creating weaknesses enemies can exploit, but as I hold the woman carrying my child, listening to her soft breathing in the darkness, I can’t bring myself to regret any of it.

17

Sabrina

Acouple of days later, I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, phone pressed to my ear as Jessie’s familiar voice fills the space around me. For the first time since arriving at the estate, I feel something close to normal.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jessie says, and I can picture her pacing around her temporary apartment the way she always does when she’s processing something complicated. “You and the scary Russian mob boss are going to co-parent your baby like a divorced couple from suburbia?”

I wince at her blunt assessment, even though it’s not entirely inaccurate. “We’re going to try to raise this child together without drama. Civilly.”

“Civilly,” she repeats, and I can hear the skepticism in her voice even through the phone. “Brina, this isn’t a normal man we’re talking about. You know that, right?”

“I know he’s dangerous.” The admission comes easier now than it would have a week ago. “He’s also the father of my child, and he’s been nothing but protective of both of us.”

“Protective, yes, but intentions don’t cancel out consequences.” Jessie’s voice softens, losing some of its edge. “I believe he means well, I really do, but meaning well doesn’t change the fact his world could get you hurt.”

I pull my knees up to my chest, careful not to put pressure on my belly, and consider her words. She’s not wrong. The past week has given me glimpses of just how different Nikandr’s life is from anything I’ve ever known. It’s clear in the way staff members defer to him with a mixture of respect and fear, the constant presence of armed security, and the phone calls conducted in languages I don’t understand, discussing things I’m probably better off not knowing about.

“It’s not just about surviving,” I say quietly. “It’s about raising a child in a world where loyalty is paid in blood. Where showing weakness can get you killed. Where the wrong choice doesn’t just affect you, it affects everyone you care about.”

She gasps softly. “You think you can handle that?”

I hesitate to answer. Can I handle raising a child in Nikandr’s world? Can I teach them to be good and kind and compassionate while also teaching them the survival skills they’ll need in a life where violence is always a possibility? “I don’t know, but I have to try. This baby didn’t ask to be born into this situation, but they’re going to be. The least I can do is make sure they have two parents who can work together instead of tearing each other apart.”

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