Page 15 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
My body shakes in his hold, wrists aching, heart beating so hard I think it might break my ribs. I try to force the words out, desperate, voice quivering. “I promise I won’t run again. I won’t. Please, I just want to go home. I’ll forget everything. You don’t have to do this.”
He studies me for a long moment, his grip unyielding. I search his face for a flicker of mercy, for anything that might soften him. His eyes are colder than ever. My promise means nothing to him.
Without warning, his hand shifts from my shoulder to my throat. The pressure is immediate, iron and final. His palm closes around my neck, fingers squeezing until my airway collapses under his grip.
My mouth falls open in shock, a thin gasp escaping before there’s no more air at all. My legs kick weakly, boots scraping uselessly against the cabinet. My fingers claw at his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. My vision sparks at the edges, gray and shrinking, the world narrowing to the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says quietly, voice almost gentle as everything else disappears.
Blackness presses in. My body sags, limp and useless. His hand is the last thing I feel—unforgiving, steady—before my knees buckle. The kitchen spins. I don’t even remember falling, only the hard, cold floor beneath my cheek, and the distant echo of my own heartbeat fading away.
Chapter Eight - Markian
She looks small in this light. Smaller than she did in the boardroom, smaller than the night I first saw her peering through the greenery at the edge of a world that should have chewed her up and spit her out.
I know better than to trust appearances. I watch her now, slumped in the chair, wrists tied behind her back, ankles lashed tight, hair fallen across her cheek. Her breathing is slow, the shallow drag of someone on the edge of waking. I cross one ankle over my knee and lean back, eyes never leaving her face.
The kitchen clock ticks in the silence. She stirs, lashes fluttering against pale skin, a faint sound escaping her lips. Her head lolls, muscles testing their limits. For a second she looks peaceful, almost childlike. Then memory returns. I see it in the way her body jerks, tension snapping through her like a live wire.
She pulls at the ropes. Her chest rises quick and sharp. I watch the fight bloom in her eyes, panic taking over. She turns, searching for any escape, any hope, but she freezes as soon as her gaze lands on me.
Good. She understands what’s real now.
“I am Markian Sharov,” I state, not wasting time. “What did you hear at the party?” My voice is flat, neither angry nor gentle. “What do you know?”
She tries to steady her breath, but she can’t hide the tremor in her voice. “I didn’t hear anything important. Just talk. Business. I don’t… I don’t know what you think I—”
“Don’t lie to me.” My words land between us like a hammer. “What did you understand?”
She hesitates, tongue flicking nervously over her lips. “I only heard… names. Some Russian. I don’t remember all of it, I swear.”
Her eyes are huge. I can read the truth in them, even if her mouth keeps trying for denial. The memory of what she overheard is written in every shallow breath, every inch of fear. She’s not stupid enough to pretend she knows nothing. She’s not smart enough to hide how much it scared her.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, letting the silence stretch until she squirms under its weight. “Who do you work for?” I ask, voice soft, dangerous.
Her jaw clenches. “No one. I’m a freelancer. I’m just a translator. Please, M-Markian, I don’t work for anyone. I’ve never told anyone, I never—”
I cut her off with a raised hand. “You’re not stupid, Jessa. Just reckless.”
The panic in her gaze sharpens, but I see defiance there too. Some stubborn little spark that refuses to be snuffed out. I find myself drawn to it, as much as I want to crush it. She doesn’t belong in this world, not really, but she keeps forcing herself to stand her ground.
I watch her chest rise and fall, quick, shallow, every muscle taut. I want to scare her—want her to feel the edge she’s dancing on, to know that she’s alive only because I allow it. But there’s something else gnawing at me, something I can’t name. I want to touch her. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks, if that trembling is fear or something else.
So I do. Slowly, deliberately, I reach out. My finger traces the line of her jaw, lingering at the pulse hammering in her neck. She flinches, recoiling as far as the ropes allow, but she can’tescape. I drag my fingertip down the line of her throat, over the delicate collarbone just visible above her shirt. Her breath catches, chest stuttering beneath my touch.
Her fear is real, but there’s something else too: a heat, an ache I hadn’t expected to find.
I keep going, slow and careful, tracing the shape of her trembling. For a moment the kitchen is nothing but the sound of her breathing and the soft scrape of my skin against hers. I watch her, studying every reaction, every shiver.
Her eyes flutter closed, lashes trembling. When she opens them, her gaze locks on mine, wild and searching.
I don’t look away. I let her see exactly how much power I have, how much she’s given me just by surviving this long.
She tries to pull away, body twisting hard against the ropes, breath coming in frantic little gasps. My fingers linger at the hollow of her throat, tracing the last of her heat before I let my hand fall. She shrinks back as far as the restraints will allow, as if distance could erase what’s just passed between us.
She can’t get away. Not from me, not from this. Her skin is still warm where I touched her, a fragile tremble under my palm.
I watch her again for a long moment, studying the panic and the helpless defiance tangled together in her eyes. She’s fighting, but it’s hopeless. The realization flickers through her features, raw and painful.
