Page 54 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
We don’t say anything. There are no words for this kind of surrender.
As I rest my head against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart, I know we’ve burned down everything old and made something new from the ash.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Markian
I stand at the window of my study, the glass cold beneath my palm, eyes fixed on the bruised sky as thunder creeps closer.
Beyond the darkened panes, rain lashes the gardens, hammering the stone terrace and blurring the world into streaks of gray and silver. My reflection shimmers there, sharp and ghostly, the kind of man I once swore I would never become: hard-mouthed, shadow-eyed, every line in my face carved deeper by regret.
What I really see is her.
Jessa, with her hair mussed, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed with heat. The way she shuddered beneath my hands that night in the hall, her body arching against me as if she could forget every terrible thing I’d done if she just let herself have this. Have me. For those moments, nothing else existed. Just her gasps in my ear, the taste of her skin, the desperate way she clung to me as if I was salvation and damnation both.
And after, her eyes. The way she looked at me. Like I could still be more than a monster. Like there was a man left beneath all the ruin and rage. For a heartbeat, I believed it. For a heartbeat, I remembered who I used to be.
When the pleasure faded, reality returned. So did the memories. I remember her fear. The night she ran—pregnant and alone—bolting into the shadows with my children because she believed I might kill her.
That belief wasn’t madness. I’d put it there, word by ugly word. I see it now, clear as lightning on the glass. The threats I spat, the promises of violence I made without thinking. I used fear to keep her close. All I did was teach her how to run.
The rain thickens, drumming like footsteps I’ll never catch. My jaw aches from clenching. I close my eyes, but that only sharpens the ache: the memory of her trembling, the look she wore every time she glanced over her shoulder in a strange town, clutching our daughters close as if she could shield them from the world and from me.
It was my fault. Every scar, every shadow in her eyes. I carved them there.
I swore I would never become my father, that I’d never make someone I loved feel small, or hunted, or helpless.
The night she left, I was already too far gone. I called her betrayal. I called her thief. I would have rather burned down the world than admit I was afraid of losing her.
Now I have her back. I have our daughters. I have everything I waged war for. The house still feels cold. Haunted, restless, aching for something I can’t name.
Behind me, the clock ticks on. Somewhere down the hall, my children sleep, their breaths soft and even. Jessa is here. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me, if she’ll ever truly be mine again, or if the damage I did is permanent.
A crack of thunder splits the night. I press my forehead to the glass, the rain blurring my vision, and promise myself that I will not lose them again. Not to fear. Not to pride. Not to the monster I let myself become.
I don’t know how to make things right. I only know I have to try.
***
Later, after the storm settles, I find myself wandering the halls, drawn by the faint sound of laughter and the scratch ofcrayons on paper. It leads me to the playroom—a room I never entered as a child, never cared about as a man. Now it smells of glue and colored wax, sunlight pooling in the corners, the old rug crowded with scattered blocks and half-finished drawings.
The girls are there, cross-legged on the floor with a battered sketchpad between them. Liana is focused, tongue between her teeth, drawing slow careful lines in purple.
Sofia has already turned her page into a riot of orange scribbles, eyes bright with delight.
Jessa crouches beside them, fingers nimble as she weaves tiny braids into their hair, her voice low and soothing, a current I can’t quite hear.
I linger in the doorway for a moment, hands shoved in my pockets, uncertain how to enter this world without breaking it. The room is all color and warmth, and I am something sharp, unyielding, a shadow against their light.
Still, I step in, stiff and silent, my movements awkward and foreign.
Sofia glances up, her little body curling slightly away, uncertain. Liana pauses, eyes flicking between me and her mother, wary. Jessa says nothing, her face unreadable, but her hand stills on Sofia’s braid, fingers tightening for an instant.
I want to say something, anything, but the words catch in my throat. So instead, I kneel awkwardly on the edge of the rug and pick up a stray green crayon, rolling it between my fingers.
The girls watch, silent at first, curiosity and caution mingling in their faces. I draw a rough square on the page, then add a crooked triangle for a roof. A house.
My hand is clumsy, the lines thick and uneven, but I force myself to keep going, to stay present.
For a minute, nothing happens. The paper crinkles, and I hear the occasional whisper of Jessa’s voice as she helps Liana with her bow. Then Sofia giggles, the sound bubbling up out of nowhere. She leans closer, grabs a blue crayon, and draws a cloud above my shaky house.
