Page 13 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
My phone buzzes. Lui, efficient as always, has already sent a photo: Jessa outside a coffee shop, laptop open, gaze far away. She looks tired. She looks like someone who wants to disappear.
I wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s plotting an escape, or if she’s already realized there’s nowhere left to go. If she’s angry, or only afraid.
She could be lying. She could be bait. I don’t believe it. Instinct tells me this is something rare. A mistake, a miracle, or a warning. Maybe all three.
I think about going to her, confronting her myself. Asking her outright what she heard, what she plans to do with it. The old way would be to remove the threat before it becomes a problem. Quick, efficient, untraceable. I could make the call right now. The question is: Do I want to?
I stare at her picture a long time, heart heavy, mind restless.
Tomorrow,I tell myself.I’ll decide tomorrow.
I know the truth—I’ve already decided. I want to see her again. I want to know what secrets she keeps. And if it costs me, if it threatens everything I’ve built. I want to know if she’s worth it.
Chapter Seven - Jessa
It’s been seven days, but the fear hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s settled deeper into my bones. Every time I leave work, every time I step off the subway and walk the last blocks home, my heart gets stuck halfway between logic and panic.
I tell myself it’s nothing. I’m overreacting. Maybe I misunderstood what I heard in the garden, maybe the danger was all in my head. Maybe he never recognized me in the boardroom.
Still, my feet move faster on every street. I check behind me, scan for cars idling at the curb, for footsteps that match my own. I clutch my keys so tight that my palm aches. I want to believe I’m safe. That I can still be invisible if I just keep my head down. But deep down, I know I’m lying.
By the time I reach my building, my nerves are buzzing. I climb the stairs, forcing myself to breathe, each step echoing in the silent hallway. My fingers fumble as I dig for my keys, metal scraping on metal, sweat making it harder to hold on to anything. I glance over my shoulder, heart hammering, even though I see nothing there. The hallway is empty. The building is as quiet as ever.
I fit the key into the lock and push. The door creaks open slower than usual. I stop on the threshold, suddenly cold, a prickling at the back of my neck. It’s too dark. I always leave the lamp on, always, but the apartment is black, thick with shadow.
I step inside, closing the door softly behind me, every muscle taut. My bag slips off my shoulder and lands by my feet.
It hits me all at once—wrong. The air feels heavy, suffocating. The kind of silence that’s waiting for a sound. Istand frozen in the small entryway, eyes struggling to adjust, senses straining for something familiar. I should turn on the lights. I should call someone. I should—
Then I see him. There’s a figure on my couch, a shape where there should be nothing. For a second I think it’s just my imagination, a trick of shadow and fear.
Then he moves. Slowly. Casually, with one arm draped over the backrest, ankle crossed over his knee, dark suit blending with the worn cushions.
The Russian from the party.
My breath catches in my chest. He’s exactly as he was in my nightmares. Even in the darkness I see the hard lines of his jaw, the glint of his eyes. Calm, watchful, unhurried. He looks up at me with a faint, humorless smile, one that never reaches his eyes.
“Not so innocent after all, are you?” His voice is soft, cold. Like he’s already decided how this ends.
Every instinct I have screams at me to run. I don’t even think, I just bolt.
I pivot, body jolting into motion, scrambling for the door I just closed behind me. My hand reaches for the knob, fingers shaking so hard I nearly drop my keys. I’m dimly aware of the quick thud of footsteps behind me, the shift of air as he rises from the couch.
I don’t look back. My mind is a swirl of panic and adrenaline. If I can just make it to the hallway, if I can scream, if I can just get outside—
I’m not fast enough. His hand catches my arm, strong and impossibly steady. He yanks me back with a force that’s controlled but absolute, spinning me around.
My back hits the wall with a dull thud, shoulders pressing into the cheap drywall of my entryway. I gasp, breath gone, palms splayed against the paint.
He pins me there, one forearm across my collarbone, his body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of cologne and danger and cold winter air. His other hand closes gently, almost delicately, around my wrist, keeping me from twisting away. I’m trapped.
The world narrows to the circle of his arms, the thunder of my pulse in my ears, the crushing certainty that there is no escape. I can’t move. I can barely think. My mouth opens on a strangled sound, but his eyes are already on mine—pale and unblinking, searching my face with that same calm intensity.
We’re inches apart. I can feel the tremor in my own body, the terror that won’t let me breathe, the heat of his gaze burning a path across my skin. The apartment is so silent that every ragged breath sounds like a scream.
My mind claws for something to say, some way out, but no words come. I stare up at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering, pinned against the wall by a man who’s been haunting my thoughts for days.
He doesn’t say a word. He just holds me there, letting the fear and realization sink in, making sure I understand there’s nowhere left to run.
