Page 16 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
A low sound slips from my lips—Russian, the old language that always tastes sharper when I’m amused. “Little innocent thing… you don’t even know how the world works.”
There’s mockery in it, and something darker, a hunger I don’t bother to hide. I shake my head, almost laughing. She’s soft, clean, untouched by the filth that stains men like me. Even now, tied and trembling, there’s a purity to her, a kind of fragile edge that drives me insane.
I know innocence when I see it. I can smell it. There’s a lightness to her, a clarity that’s impossible to fake. She hasn’t been claimed by anyone or anything. She’s so breakable, so new. It tempts the worst parts of me, the old cravings that never really die. The urge to corrupt, to ruin, to drag her into the darkness and see how she survives.
She’s staring at me, terrified, but she’s not begging. Not anymore. There’s a stubborn tilt to her chin that makes my blood stir.
I won’t kill her. Not tonight. Not in this kitchen, with her hands tied and her eyes wide and pleading. I could. It would be easy—one phone call, one slip of the knife, and she’d disappear into the city like so many before her.
Something stops me. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the thrill of having her here, helpless and alive, knowing she’s mine for as long as I choose.
I straighten, letting the moment hang between us, heavy and final. “You’ll be staying with me now,” I say, voice flat and absolute.
Her eyes go impossibly wide. She shakes her head, the fear coming back in waves. “No, please, you can’t. I won’t say anything. I promise. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again, I swear—”
I cut her off with a look. There’s no use arguing. The decision is made. She’s coming with me not by choice; I’ll force her if I have to.
I step away, pacing to the window, giving her space to process what I’ve said. She tugs at the ropes, writhes in the chair, but there’s no escape. I hear the faint, choked sound of her crying, a small sob she tries to swallow down.
“You have no say in this, Jessa,” I tell her, my tone almost gentle. “This is for your safety, and for mine.”
She chokes out, “My safety? You’re the one who—”
I turn, the look I give her cutting off whatever she meant to say. “It would be much easier to make you disappear; do you understand? I’m not choosing the easy way. For either of us.”
She stares at the floor, hair falling over her face. She’s trembling so hard I can see the movement from across the room.
I move back to the chair, kneel in front of her so we’re at eye level. My voice drops low, just for her. “If you want to live, you’ll do as you’re told. You’ll stay with me. You won’t run again. You won’t try to call for help. If you do—” I let the threat hang, unfinished, but she understands. I see it in the way she closes her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
I reach out, almost tender, and tuck her hair behind her ear. She shudders at my touch, but she doesn’t pull away this time. She’s learning. Or maybe she’s just exhausted. Either way, she’s mine now.
I rise to my feet, every movement measured. I call for Lui, my voice echoing in the hall. He appears almost instantly, eyes flicking from her to me and back again. He doesn’t need an explanation.
“Untie her,” I command. “Gently. She’s not to be harmed.”
Lui nods, moving to the chair. Jessa flinches at his touch, but he’s careful, unwinding the ropes from her wrists and ankles. She stays frozen, muscles locked tight, as if the bonds are still there. I watch her, arms crossed, as Lui steps away.
She doesn’t try to run. She just sits there, staring at her hands, skin red and marked from the ropes.
“Get up,” I say softly.
Slowly, she rises. Her legs are weak, knees shaking as she stands. I move closer, placing a steadying hand on her back, guiding her toward the door. She lets me, too afraid to resist.
“This isn’t forever,” I murmur, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Not so long as you stay on my good side.”
She doesn’t answer, just stumbles forward as I lead her out, leaving behind everything she once called safe.
I guide her out of the kitchen, hand firm at the small of her back. She’s stiff, every muscle resisting, but she doesn’t fight. Not really. Maybe she knows it would only make things worse. Maybe the fear has finally soaked through her bones, slowing her movements, dulling her edges.
We reach the hallway. She glances back, hope flickering. “Can I at least pack a bag?” Her voice is quiet, shaking but steady enough to ask.
I don’t slow. “No.”
She stumbles on the step, biting back a plea. “I need my things. My ID, my phone, clothes. Please. Just give me ten minutes. I won’t—”
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “Anything you need, Lui will come back for. You can write a list.”
She falters, disbelief mixing with desperation. “You’re not even going to let me take my own stuff?”
