Page 3 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
She shifts her weight, trying to look relaxed, but her hands betray her. I see the tremor in her fingers, the shallow pulse at her throat. She’s scared, but not frozen. She holds my gaze, forces herself to smile, as if pretending innocence can erase the danger she walked into.
I let the silence stretch, watching her face, looking for cracks. Her eyes dart away, then back. The smile stays, brittle and thin. She wants to run. I almost want to see her try.
“Second left,” I say finally, voice even. I don’t move aside.
She hesitates, the tiniest stutter in her step, then offers a soft “Thank you.” Her smile never reaches her eyes. She edges past, shoulders drawn tight, every movement careful, rehearsed.
She’s American. Useless, or so she wants me to believe. Harmless, in that way only someone very naïve could manage. Istudy her face longer than I should: big blue eyes, heart-shaped mouth, cheeks flushed with embarrassment or fear, maybe both. She looks so soft, too much sun and hope for a room full of wolves.
She doesn’t fit here. Everything about her is wrong for this house. The boots, the cheap jacket, the twitch of nerves under the surface. She doesn’t have the bite of these people, but there’s something else, something in the way she holds my gaze, then flicks it away, quick and sly. The smile says innocent. Her eyes say otherwise.
She moves like she’s trying to convince herself she’s invisible. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the small, unconscious gesture, makes her look young. She tries to walk calmly, but I see how her fist tightens around her phone, thumb pressing against the screen like she needs the anchor. I’ve seen it before—a girl out of her depth, hoping no one notices how close she is to drowning.
I step back, giving her space. She slips past, shoes silent on the rug, and disappears down the hall. I let her go. Just a girl, I tell myself. Maybe she wandered too far from the party, maybe she heard nothing. I want to believe that.
But I don’t.
I linger in the corridor, listening to the retreating click of her boots. My mind sifts through the last few minutes, replaying every detail. There was fear, yes, but not the kind that comes from being lost. Not exactly. It’s something deeper, an alertness born from paying too much attention. She wasn’t confused. She was calculating. Watching. Listening.
A spark of annoyance flares in my chest. I hate complications, and she looks like one.
The hallway is quiet now, filled with the faint scent of expensive flowers and the echo of other people’s laughter from the ballroom. I stand there a moment longer, arms folded, watching the spot where she disappeared.
The soft glow from a nearby lamp paints shifting shadows across the wall, and I find myself imagining her face in that golden light—flushed, nervous, trying so hard to blend in.
Maybe she really is nothing. Another girl in over her head, running from her own ghosts.
Or maybe she’s something else. Something dangerous, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I take my phone from my pocket, thumb swiping to my most trusted number. Lui picks up on the first ring, a whisper of static at his end. “Boss?”
“There’s a girl here,” I say quietly, still watching the empty hall. “Small, blonde, blue eyes. She was snooping around the garden. American. Floral dress and a leather jacket, boots. You see her?”
A pause, then the faint scrape of a lighter. Lui is never far, always somewhere close in the dark. “Yeah, I clocked her when she came in with the Wilder kid. Didn’t think she was important.”
“She might be.” I keep my voice low, deliberate. “Keep an eye on her. I want to know who she talks to, where she goes. If she leaves, you follow. Got it?”
He grunts his assent, unbothered. “Copy that. Want me to scare her?”
“No,” I say, too fast. “Not unless she gives you a reason. She acts strange, I want to know. Don’t get close enough for her to notice you.”
Another pause. I hear voices at his end—party noise, music, the hum of rich people with nothing to fear. “Understood. I’ll let you know if she does anything.”
I hang up, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
I stand there a minute more, the memory of her voice lingering in the air. Something about her clings to me, insistent and unwelcome. She’s a puzzle piece that refuses to be ignored.
Alexei appears at the far end of the hall, cutting through the crowd like a blade. His eyes flick to mine, then down the corridor toward where she vanished.
“You dealt with it?” he asks in Russian, quiet, crisp.
“Yes,” I reply. I keep my tone flat. “She says she was lost. Looking for the bathroom.”
He snorts, mouth twisting in a smirk. “You believe her?”
I don’t answer. We both know I don’t. Not entirely.
Alexei studies me, the way he always does, seeing more than he says. “She’s probably nothing,” he says. “A friend of Wilder’s. They let all kinds in these days.”
