Page 40 of Chased & Bred by the BRATVA
She laughs. “That’s only eight days away, Nikolai.”
“Precisely. It’s too long.”
Epilogue
Seven months later
Rachel
Seven months pregnant means no more forest sprints. No more slipping barefoot through leaves and feeling the thrill of being hunted. My thighs rub together. My lower back aches. And my belly leads the way, full and heavy and sacred.
But I can still hide.
That’s why I’m tucked into the far corner of the orangery, behind a lattice of jasmine vines, my breath held as I listen to the distant rumble of Nikolai’s voice. He’s close. Closer than I expected.
“She’s not in the bedroom,” he says, his tone dry, clipped. “Or the kitchen. Or the bath. She’s hiding.”
“I’m shocked,” Mikhail deadpans. I peek through the leaves just in time to see him lean lazily against one of the greenhouse support beams. He’s cradling a lemon in one hand, rolling it between his fingers like it’s a stress ball. “She’s been waddling like a duck all morning and you still can’t find her?”
Nikolai’s growl is low. Possessive. “She’s my wife, not a duck.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Mikhail mutters, then grins when Nikolai shoots him a look. “Check the south path or the library. She loves playing in the places you least expect.”
“She’s not allowed in the library. Not after last time.”
“And yet,” Mikhail says with a smirk, “she went anyway.”
Nikolai curses under his breath, and I bite down on a giggle. Mikhail sees it. He looks straight at me. Doesn’t say a word, just rolls his eyes and jerks his head toward the other exit.
I mouth a silent thank you and slip away.
The hallway is cool and dim, the marble floor echoing slightly under my bare feet as I make my way back toward Nikolai’s suite. It’s quieter here. Safer. The scent of him still clings to the walls, leather and cedar and that darker spice that makes me shiver every time.
I open the door to his room, close it behind me, and lean against it, exhaling a breath slowly.
Moments later, I hear it.
Footsteps.
The pause.
The slow click of the door handle turning.
Nikolai steps inside like a man returning from war. His eyes find me immediately—no surprise in them, just that low, simmering hunger I’ve come to crave more than food or rest or air.
“I should’ve known,” he mutters, stalking forward.
I grin and step back. “Should’ve known what?”
“That my little rabbit would find new ways to be hunted.”
He stops in front of me, resting his hands on the swell of my stomach. His thumb brushes the edge of the rabbit charm still hanging from my neck after all these months.
“You ran,” he murmurs.
“I waddled.”
“Still counts,” he says, and then he’s kissing me; slow and deep and reverent, like he’s drinking in the proof that I’m here, that I’m his.
