Page 54 of The Russian's Forced Bride
Ever since our little squabble at the hospital, Rafael hardly spoke to me. He had been discharged about a week ago and only came by the house to change his clothes. The tense atmosphere between us filled me with a mixture of dread and rage that was about to explode in a matter of days.
He was out there living his best life while I was cooped up in here, sickly and pregnant for him. I hadn’t even gone in for work in days because my morning sickness sucked the life out of me, and he didn’t even bother to ask why I had been skipping or why it looked like I could drop dead at any moment.
And since I had been off work since the week began, here I was in the living room, an unfinished toast—which Brandon had made for me—on a plate in front of me while I pretendedto be engrossed in the movie Brandon had put on, as he was currently seated across from me, deeply interested in the telenovela drama playing out on the TV screen.
Brandon had literally slipped into my schedule as he had promised me. He skipped classes to cook for me and keep me company, even rubbing my back whenever it felt sore—all things my supposed husband was supposed to do in his stead.
And aside from Brandon, the only other people who knew I was pregnant were Eleanor and Jacob. They had been ecstatic when they heard. Jacob even joked about being an uncle and promised to fly in when I was due for delivery in a couple of months. I had also wanted to tell him about Brandon, but then I reckoned that it was Brandon’s story to share and not mine.
I did want to tell Lara about the pregnancy as well, but she was Matvey’s woman, and knowing Lara, she was certainly going to let Matvey know. It was a Bratva thing. Being pregnant for a Bratva man was like carrying an extraordinary child, she once claimed. But I didn’t care about its significance. If Matvey found out, Rafael would too, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I was pregnant anymore.
My subconscious self even dared me to run away so I could leave Rafael devastated, but deep down, I knew he wouldn’t even care if I was gone. I was just his little sex toy. One he could easily replace.
With my hands slipping under my hoodie and cradling my belly, I tried to pay attention to the TV, but once again, I blanked out—immersing myself deeply in my thoughts as the voices of the characters faded into the background. But then, moments after, the snapping of fingers jerked me out of the depths of my thoughts.
Brandon appeared before my line of vision, his hands holding on to my free hand as he knelt in front of me, his features screaming in concern for me.
“Are you okay?” he asked, gently rubbing the top of my hand.
And maybe it was because I was pregnant, but just as he asked, my eyes burned with unshed tears. I struggled to hold them back, to go back to being the perfect heiress Father had raised me to be.
An heiress who didn’t cry. An heiress who could always put up a front no matter what situation I was in.
But I couldn’t. The traitorous tears slid down my cheeks, and I used the hem of my hoodie to wipe them off.
“It’s fine.” I feigned a laugh. “Must be the pregnancy hormones, and the movie.” I pointed to the now muted TV screen.
Brandon didn’t seem too impressed by my excuse. “That was a comedy movie, Ari. And in case you didn’t notice, I’ve been watching you for about an hour now. You’re not okay.”
His voice was soft, gentle, as though he was talking to a baby. But I didn’t mind it. If anything, it made me feel even more vulnerable. And I found myself stripping my emotions raw in front of him—something I hardly ever did.
“He doesn’t look at me anymore.” The tears were dripping onto my hoodie now like waterworks. “He’s always busy, and he doesn’t tell me anything when I ask. And then this house just suffocates me when he’s not in it, and I’m scared. I’m scared that he’ll wake up one morning and won’t want me anymore.”
I had become obsessed with that man, and at least—even though Rafael didn’t love me—he saw me as valuable, and I wanted to keep it that way. I wanted him to crave me like the air he breathed.
I actually wanted him to love me. As crazy as that sounded.
But Rafael Kamarov was a man incapable of love. He thrived on violence. He thrived in the empire he and his generations had built through blood and secrets over the years.
I knew a man like that couldn’t love me.
Brandon’s eyes softened at me in pity, and I hated it. But then I let him hold me as he opened his arms wide to hug me. The embrace was filled with warmth that seeped into my heart as he rubbed my back.
“You’ll be fine, Ari. I promise you,” he assured me. And after pulling away from the hug, his hands still holding me, he said, “Why don’t you divorce the piece of shit and come live with me? We obviously can’t get married, ’cause that would be incest, but I bet I’d make a way better husband than him.”
I found myself laughing, and a weight lifted off my heart and shoulders.
It was a tempting offer, but Brandon’s apartment was already as miniature as it could get, and I honestly didn’t want to inconvenience him any more than I already had.
But at the same time, I wanted Rafael to feel the rage I was feeling if he eventually got to hear I had moved in with Brandon.
“I’ll think about your offer. Doesn’t sound so bad.” I smiled softly at him, my tears now long forgotten, even though my eyes still felt swollen and sore.
Brandon then took to his feet and helped me up.
“Let’s go see a movie,” he suggested.
But I shook my head. I wasn’t really feeling up for it, and though the nausea that would randomly hit me had reduced over the past few days, I still didn’t trust myself well enough to be out in public. But Brandon was persistent.
