Page 37 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
My pulse spikes, but not from fear. Never fear. Fury. White-hot, blinding, the kind that cracks bones and breaks hearts.
“How the fuck did this happen?” I snarl, slamming my fist onto the dining table so hard the plates rattle. Lui flinches, eyes wide. “She shouldn’t have made it past the guards. Past you.”
He shrugs, helpless. “She’s clever. Maybe one of the maids helped her. I’ll talk to them.”
“Talk?” I hiss. “If you find out anyone lifted a finger to help her, you’ll do more than talk.” My world narrows to a point. I want to tear the house apart brick by brick until she’s in front of me, spitting mad and scared and mine.
The first night, I wait. I sit in my office, glass in hand, staring at the front door, expecting her to walk through it any minute. Maybe it’s a tantrum. Maybe she wants me to beg, to promise her something softer, something safer. She’s stubborn. She’s always come back before.
But the night passes, and there’s no word. No footsteps on the stairs. No creak of the floor outside my door. Just silence, thick and endless.
The second night, something in me starts to break. I check my phone for messages, for a missed call, for a note slipped under the door. Nothing. I call every number she might have memorized, every contact in the city who might have seen her. The line rings and rings and rings.
The staff walk on eggshells. The guards brace for violence. Even Lui keeps his distance, sensing that my rage is a razor edge.
By the third morning, I stop pretending. She ran away. She took herself—her fear, her wit, her softness, the hurricane offeeling she woke up in me—and vanished like she’d never been here at all. The realization stings sharper than any bullet.
All the walls I built, the rules, the violence, none of it kept her. I wanted her to be afraid of me, to obey.
Now all I am is alone, my hands empty, my bed cold.
I pour another drink, stare out at the city that swallowed her up, and promise myself I’ll find her. No matter how far she runs, no matter how clever she thinks she is—she’s mine. I’ll bring her home, or I’ll burn the world down trying.
A darker thought lingers, twisting beneath the anger:What if she never comes back? What if she chooses a life without me, without the violence, the danger, the chains? What if this is my punishment for letting her in, for wanting too much?
The betrayal gnaws at me. I can survive a hundred wounds, but this one—this loss—is the one that might finally destroy me.
The manor is cold, empty, haunted by her absence. I stalk the halls, searching for a scent, a thread—anything to anchor me in this unfamiliar quiet.
There’s nothing. She’s gone. I’m left with the echo of her voice in my head, her laughter, her stubborn defiance, all of it slipping through my fingers like smoke.
I barely sleep. The world outside goes on as if nothing has changed, but my world has shrunk to the space she left behind—her empty room, her pillow, the clothes she didn’t take. I find myself searching the same corners again and again, retracing her steps, as if I might find some hidden message, some clue to where she’s run.
The truth stares me down every time: she left me. She ran, and she isn’t coming back.
On the fourth morning, a knock comes at my office door—hard, tentative. I turn, already irritated, ready to bark at whoever dares to disturb me. It’s one of my younger guards, nervous, holding something small and carefully wrapped in tissue paper.
“Sir,” he says, voice tight. “We found this hidden in her handbag. Didn’t want to bring it in front of everyone.”
I gesture for him to leave it on the desk. He sets it down and backs out, closing the door behind him. The silence is suffocating. I sit for a long time, staring at the little bundle. I don’t know why, but I’m afraid to open it.
I feel it in my bones, this is the answer to everything, the one thing I missed, the one thing I should have seen.
My hands are steady as I unwrap the tissue, layer by layer. Inside is a plastic stick, cheap and ordinary, but what it means is anything but. Two unmistakable pink lines stare back at me. Positive. Pregnant.
She was carrying my child.
A strange numbness floods me. I sit back in my chair and just stare. She was pregnant. With my blood. My legacy. She never told me. She never left a note, never said a word. No goodbye.
For a long time, I don’t move. I try to make sense of it, to fit this new truth into the story I’ve been telling myself. Had she planned to run all along? Was she always going to take my child and disappear? Did she think I would hurt her, or the baby?Did she ever believe I could be anything other than the monster everyone sees?
My mind circles back, sharp and hungry. She was carrying my child. And she still ran.
The betrayal stings anew, but it’s different now. It’s bigger than anger, sharper than jealousy or heartbreak. This isn’t just about her, or about me. It’s about something that should never be taken from me. My blood. My heir. My legacy.
A new obsession takes root. Darker, deeper, more dangerous than before. The rage coils in my belly, cold and controlled. She thought she could run? That she could hide my seed, my future, and vanish into the city? She thought she could erase my mark and raise my child as if I never existed?
No one takes what’s mine and survives.
