Page 17 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
“Not now,” I say, tone final. “You don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t touch your phone. Understand?”
She says nothing. Her jaw tightens, and I know she’s biting down on a thousand words. I can feel the fury rolling off her in waves, but that’s better than panic. I’d rather her angry than hysterical.
We reach the street. Night air cuts sharp against her skin. She shivers, arms wrapping around herself as if she could shield her heart with nothing but bone and trembling muscle. The car waits at the curb, engine running. Lui stands by the open rear door, face blank, eyes unreadable.
I don’t waste time. I give her a gentle shove toward the car. “Get in.”
She balks for half a second, long enough to show she’s not broken yet, not entirely. She obeys, climbing into the back seat. Lui shuts the door behind her with a quiet finality.
I slide in after, taking the seat beside her. She’s pressed against the opposite door, as far from me as she can get. Her hands twist in her lap, knuckles white. I nod to Lui in the front. He puts the car in gear, pulling away from the curb in silence.
Jessa stares straight ahead, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. The streetlights flash over her face, striping her skin with gold and shadow. I don’t say anything, not yet. I watch her. I wait for the moment she’lllook at me, see the shape of her future in my eyes, and finally understand there’s no way back to her old life.
Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
Chapter Nine - Jessa
I wake slowly, struggling up through fog, the kind that clings to nightmares. My eyelids are heavy, but the light is soft, filtering through curtains so thick and gold they turn the morning sun into honey. For a moment, I almost forget, almost let myself believe I’m in some beautiful old hotel, a place built for daydreams instead of threats.
Then I shift beneath the covers and pain shoots through my wrists, an ache that’s equal parts bruise and memory. The sheets are thick, expensive. They slide against my skin like silk. The pillow beneath my cheek is impossibly soft, scented faintly of lavender and something darker, something expensive.
I know better than to be comforted by any of it. This isn’t luxury. It’s a cage. A gilded one, maybe, with velvet and polished wood and sunlight, but a cage all the same.
I push myself up, wincing as the raw skin around my wrists complains. I half expect to find myself tied again, but my hands are free. Red and marked, but free. I rub them gingerly, as if that might erase the memory of rough rope and colder fingers. I want to blame it all on the restraints, the adrenaline, the confusion of being snatched from my life in the dead of night.
But that’s not all I feel.
My mind is thick and sluggish, trailing behind the memory of last night like a shadow. I remember him—Markian—looming over me, his eyes unreadable, his voice as cold as his touch was hot. I remember the pressure of his hands, not just on my skin, but inside my head, under my ribs, pressing on something that didn’t know how to fight back. I hated him. I still do. I repeat it in my mind like a mantra.I hate him. I hate him.
My body is a traitor.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel him again. The way he pinned me, the weight of him holding me still, the rough heat of his palm on my jaw, my throat. The terror that spun into something sharp, something wild, something that made my breath catch for reasons I don’t want to admit.
I remember the fear, yes—the awful, animal panic that made me squirm and fight. Underneath that, buried deeper, there was something else. Something I can’t even name. My body responded to him. I felt it: a heat, a longing, twisted with dread and shame.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it would stop. My skin burned under his hands, even as I tried to twist away.
I blame adrenaline. I blame confusion, exhaustion, anything but myself. I won’t own it. I can’t. I’m not that girl—the one who would want the man who broke into her apartment, who threatened her, who tied her up and forced her into a car. I won’t be her.
Still, when I pull the covers up around my shoulders, I shudder, not with cold, but with the ghost of his touch. My skin tingles with the memory, hypersensitive, desperate to forget but unable to let go. I press my face into the pillow, breathing deep, willing my heart to slow down. The scent here is all wrong—not home, not mine. I wonder if it’s his room, or just one of many places he uses to keep inconvenient women out of sight.
The room is beautiful in a way that feels almost cruel. The wallpaper is warm-toned, marbled gold and cream, trimmed with gilded molding. Heavy velvet drapes pool onto the floor. There’s a chaise lounge in the corner, upholstered in deepburgundy, and a mirror above the fireplace that makes the sunlight dance.
Everything is lush, deliberate, chosen to comfort. But comfort is the last thing I feel.
I throw back the covers, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet land on thick carpet, plush and silent. My ankles aren’t tied. I flex my hands, testing the soreness. They’re stiff, but nothing is broken. I scan the room for cameras, for windows that open, for anything that might signal escape.
There’s a knock at the door, too soft to be him. My chest goes tight. I barely breathe.
A woman’s voice comes through, gentle but firm. “Miss Whitaker? Breakfast is ready if you’d like to come down.”
I can’t answer. My throat is raw, too full of things I can’t say. I nod, even though she can’t see me.
“Miss Whitaker?”
“Okay,” I manage, the word coming out thin and small.
Her footsteps fade. I’m alone again.
