Page 32 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
He leans in, his lips brushing my temple. “I should hate you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But I can’t.” The confession hangs between us, raw and aching. It’s a warning as much as a promise.
Lui glances away, pretending not to watch, but his jaw is tight. I wonder what he thinks—if he pities me, or envies me, or if he just doesn’t care as long as Markian comes back alive.
Markian lets his hand slide down to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind me how easily he could hurt me, how much power he holds.
“Go wait in the car,” he says, tone brisk. “We’re going home. I’ll deal with you there.”
The words send a fresh rush of fear through me. But there’s something else too—something shameful and electric, pulsing low and hot in my belly. I obey, walking to the caron shaking legs, every step feeling like a sentence, or maybe a promise.
As I slide into the backseat, I see Markian linger, issuing orders, reclaiming control. He looks back just once, his eyes locking on mine, and for a moment I see it all—anger, desire, regret, and something perilously close to love. Then he turns away, and the world goes on.
Then he slips into the car and says, “We should leave, before the police get here. Hear those sirens? You don’t want them catching us.”
I press my forehead to the cool window, trying to catch my breath, to sort through the chaos inside me. I’m not sure I ever will.
One thing is clear: I’m his. I always have been. After today, there’s no going back.
Chapter Sixteen - Markian
It’s deep into the night by the time we make it back. The city is washed clean by rain, the violence left to pool in alley gutters, to be washed down the drains by morning. I move through the manor’s side door with Alexei and Lui, boots squelching, clothes marked by blood—some mine, more of it not.
The house is silent but for the echo of our footsteps, the faint tremor of adrenaline that still hasn’t left my hands.
We head straight for my office, a fortress lined with dark wood and heavy curtains. I drop into my chair and pour vodka for each of us, my hands steadier than I feel. The glass glints under the lamp, clear and cold. It burns as it goes down, enough to take the edge off the ache in my ribs, enough that I can almost forget the chaos in the street, the faces of my men as they fell.
Alexei sits opposite me, his shirt torn, a fresh white bandage peeking from beneath his sleeve. He looks untouched, but I know better. Alexei’s always been that way: bulletproof and cold, but tonight his eyes are bleak, mouth pressed thin.
Lui is the last in, trailing smoke and the scent of cordite. He flops into a leather chair, exhaling hard, rolling his sore shoulder. “We made it,” he mutters, half in disbelief, half in pride.
The air is thick with smoke and tension. I swirl my glass, stare at the clear burn of the vodka, let myself drift. Her face drifts up, always. Jessa, wide-eyed, mouth open in a gasp—fear, pleasure, anger, all tangled together in the memory of her skin against mine. I clench my jaw, willing her away.
It doesn’t work. She’s there, haunting me, even as my world collapses.
Alexei breaks the silence, voice cutting through like a blade. “We lost too many.” His words are blunt. “ Five more are in the hospital. Two won’t make it to morning. It’s one hell of a mess to clear up, I’ll have to pull a lot of strings to get the authorities off of our case.” He doesn’t let the pain show, doesn’t ask for pity. “All because Chris knew. Knew everything.”
I don’t respond, don’t look up. He lets it sit for a beat, then continues. “You want to tell me how an American girl—a freelancer, a nobody—knew our plans?” He’s not cruel. Just factual, as always. “You’re getting soft, Markian. She warned him. You almost got us killed.”
The words sting, but they’re true. I swallow more vodka, the glass heavy in my hand, and let the burn numb me. I picture Jessa’s face, every memory sharper now, brighter. Her eyes as she begged me, her touch, the way she felt under my hands. The guilt that churns in my chest is worse than the pain in my ribs.
“I know,” I say at last, voice flat. “If she acts up again, I’ll kill her myself.” The words sound hollow, but I let them hang in the air, daring Alexei to challenge me.
Lui laughs, a thin, shaky sound. “And when you get tired of her?” He smirks, trying to lighten the mood, but his eyes are wary.
I look at him, force a crooked grin, and laugh. The laugh is mean, sharp, Bratva humor. “I’ll kill her then too,” I say, voice rolling through the silence. “Simple as that.”
The others laugh, and for a moment it almost feels real. Just three men sharing a bottle after a rough night, letting black humor bind the wounds that won’t heal. The laughter bounces off the walls, rough and too loud.
But as the echoes fade, the words turn to stone in my chest. I know damn well I could never do it. Not to her. Not even if she begged for it.
I pour another round, watching the vodka catch the light. My mind spins with everything I should be thinking: how to rebuild after tonight, how to move on from this.
None of it sticks. It’s all static. All I see is Jessa: her smile, her tears, the taste of her breath as she fell apart for me.
Alexei gets up, stretches his battered limbs, and tosses his empty glass onto the table. “We can’t afford more mistakes,” he says. His voice is rough, final. “The next time someone slips, we might not get out.”
He leaves without waiting for an answer, boots thudding down the hall. Lui lingers, gaze flicking from my face to the window, then back. He starts to say something, thinks better of it, and finally just nods. “You’ll do what you have to do, Boss.”
When I’m alone, the office seems too big. The shadows crawl, the silence buzzes. I toss back the last of the vodka, rubbing at my ribs, and try to chase the ghosts away.
