Page 2 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
She replies with a dozen emojis and a warning not to get kidnapped. I almost laugh. Almost.
As I slide past the room, though, more Russian catches my ears. They say a name. I catch it, clear as day: Chris Jenkins.
The name jolts through me, stopping me in my tracks. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. For a moment, I hope I’m invisible—blonde girl in a borrowed dress, anonymous and harmless.
I can’t help it. Curiosity pulls me closer, just a step, then another. I tell myself I’m leaving, but I want to see their faces, to know what danger sounds like in a language I pretend not to know.
The wind shifts, carrying their conversation past me in broken pieces. Murder. Disposal. Blood. I freeze, heart thudding, breath shallow. My mouth tastes like metal.
If I leave now, maybe they won’t notice. Maybe I can melt back into the house, find Vivienne, tell her I’m sick and disappear before midnight. The word Jenkins echoes in my head, sticky and wrong. I try to move. To step lightly, careful not to let my boots scrape against the marble. I’m so focused on not making a sound that I miss the shadow by the door.
I glance up, meaning only to check the distance. That’s when I see him.
Ice-blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Pale skin under the harsh garden lights. He wears a tailored suit, the fabric hugging a body built for violence. For a moment, I can’t breathe. He’s taller than anyone I’ve ever met, all edges and stillness, watching me with the calm of a man who’s decided what to do with me already.
Our gazes meet. I can’t look away. There’s something in the set of his mouth, the way his jaw flexes, that makes me forget how to move. His eyes sweep over me: head to boots, slow and appraising, like he’s filing me away for later. My skin crawls. I look down, try to swallow the panic rising in my throat, and force my feet to move.
I push past the door, pulse hammering, mouth dry. I hear the Russian again. One word, then another, quieter now. I don’tknow if he’s speaking to his friend or into a phone, but I know the tone: a decision being made.
The urge to run is almost overwhelming, but I keep my steps steady, refusing to look back. I tell myself I imagined the threat in his eyes.
Deep down, I know I didn’t.
Chapter Two - Markian
Alexei is in the middle of a warning, something clipped and serious about Jenkins, but my attention slips. The party is a blur of silk and gold, every corner filled with the bored faces of people who think they’re invincible. I let him talk, keep my eyes on the garden. There’s movement at the edge: too cautious, too quiet to be anyone who belongs.
There. Small. Blonde. She’s trying to vanish behind the hedge, but she’s got no talent for it. I watch the way her hair catches the light, that little flicker of nerves in her eyes. Wrong place, wrong time. Her fingers clutch a glass, knuckles pale. She’s got the look of someone who wandered into the middle of a storm and is only now realizing it.
“Mark,” Alexei says, lowering his voice, “you listening to me?”
I hold up a hand, signaling him to wait. I track the girl’s path. She isn’t like the others here. There’s no money in the way she moves, no practiced confidence. She doesn’t belong in this house. Doesn’t belong near men like us.
She’s peeking through the greenery. Deliberate, but not skilled. She looks over her shoulder once, then again, not quite sure if she’s being watched. I watch her anyway. Her curiosity is obvious, even from this distance. That’s always a problem. I’ve seen it before. Curiosity gets people killed.
For a moment, she freezes, half hidden by a sculpted boxwood. Her expression shifts: uncertainty, then something like resolve. It’s almost admirable. Almost.
I murmur to Alexei, “I’ll handle it.” He nods once, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his eyes. He trusts me to clean up my own messes.
I step away from the terrace, slipping through the garden’s shadow, boots silent on the flagstones. I keep her in sight as she weaves past the marble fountain, shoulders drawn in, head down. Her fingers toy with her phone, flicking through screens she isn’t reading, the way people do when they need to look busy. When they’re hoping nobody will notice them. She glances back—once, twice, like she doesn’t know where to let her gaze settle.
She thinks she’s invisible. She isn’t.
When she reaches the side door, she hesitates, as if waiting for someone to tell her not to go in. She doesn’t belong here, and every instinct in her body is telling her to leave, but still she moves forward, drawn by the kind of stubbornness that usually ends in regret. I let her have a head start, keep my pace easy.
No reason to make her run—yet.
She slips inside, shoulders tense. I follow at a distance, the party noise fading behind me. She moves quickly, but not gracefully. Her hand trembles as she reaches for her phone again, thumb tapping out a nervous rhythm against the glass. She ducks her head, pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and keeps moving. She’s not running, not yet, but she’s thinking about it. I can see the calculation in her eyes.
Her path leads her down a narrow hall lined with family portraits and antique mirrors. She glances at each reflection as if it might betray her. I watch the line of her jaw tighten, the way she tucks her chin, shrinking into herself. She reminds me of afawn picking its way through brambles, too soft for the world it’s been born into.
I take my time, matching her pace, closing the distance only when I want to be seen. I step in front of her at the next junction, cutting off her escape with practiced nonchalance. She startles, eyes wide. I see her breath catch, see the split-second flicker of panic she tries to bury.
Good. Fear keeps people honest.
“You lost?” My tone is mild, almost amused, but I keep my body in the center of the hall, blocking her way.
Her lips part, a quick intake of breath. She recovers fast—faster than I expect. “Sorry,” she says, voice bright and fluent, every syllable crisp American. “I’m just looking for the bathroom. Got turned around.” Her smile is soft, meant to be harmless, and almost convincing. Almost.
