Page 23 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
We finish lunch in silence, but it’s nothing like the silence before. Now, every nerve in my body is raw, every sense trained on the space he fills beside me. I can feel where his hand touched me, the echo of his fingers thrumming in my skin. Shame curls low in my belly, hot and relentless. I keep my gaze on my plate, forcing myself to eat, but every swallow is thick and difficult. I can’t let him see how undone I am, how easily I’ve surrendered again.
He doesn’t bother to fill the silence. He eats like nothing happened, eyes occasionally flicking to me with a cool satisfaction that makes me want to scream.
When I finally set my fork down, appetite ruined, I can’t stand another minute in his presence. I slide my chair backand stand, pressing my palms to the linen to keep them from shaking.
“I’d like to go to my room now,” I say, voice clipped, barely above a whisper.
He glances up, eyes bright with something dark. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you from your beauty sleep, angel.” The Russian endearment rolls off his tongue, mocking and intimate. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Heat flashes up my neck, equal parts anger and humiliation. I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. I turn on my heel, head held high, and stride out of the dining room, heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
The walk back to my bedroom is a blur. The halls are empty, the only sound the soft scuff of my footsteps and the distant rumble of thunder outside. I want to scream, to cry, to break something, anything, just to feel like I still have a shred of control. I hate him. I hate him for what he’s done, for how he touches me, for how he looks at me like I’m already his.
Mostly, I hate myself more for wanting him back.
The bedroom is warm, golden afternoon light painting patterns across the floor. I close the door quietly behind me, sinking onto the edge of the bed. I press my hands to my face, willing the tears to come, but nothing happens. I’m too tangled up, too lost.
I try to read, but the words blur and melt. I try to focus on the world outside the window, on the birds flitting through the garden, but all I see is Markian. The way he looked at me, hungry and sure. The way his hands claimed me beneath the table, bold and unyielding. My thighs press together, heat spiraling throughme despite everything. I tell myself to stop, to think of anything else, but I can’t.
My fingers drift over my skirt, the fabric rough beneath my palms. I remember the way he touched me, the sure press of his fingers, the rough drag of his voice in my ear. I let myself imagine it again: his hand under my skirt, his mouth at my neck, the weight of his body pinning me to the bed. My breath comes faster, lips parting as I slide my hand beneath my underwear, seeking the heat he left behind.
It’s wrong. Every inch of it is wrong. I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t need the roughness, the dominance, the feeling of being utterly consumed.
My body doesn’t care. My body aches for him, for the way he made me feel. Helpless and wanted, terrified and alive.
I move my fingers the way he did, slow at first, circling, pressing, teasing myself the way he would. My hips rock against my hand, breath catching in my throat as pleasure builds, tight and relentless. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound, the taste of shame and longing sharp on my tongue.
I imagine him watching me, those pale eyes glittering with approval, a slow smile curving his mouth as he sees how easily I fall apart for him. The image pushes me closer, my body tightening, my mind spinning. I want to hate him. I want to hate myself.
All I can do is chase the high he left in me, desperate for release.
When it comes, it crashes over me, fierce and blinding. My toes curl, my back arches, and I gasp his name—silent, desperate, a secret I’ll never admit. I shudder, collapsing backonto the sheets, body limp and sated, mind swirling with guilt and need.
For a long time, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, skin slick with sweat. The shame comes slowly, settling into my bones. I wipe my hand on the sheet and roll over, pulling the covers up to my chin, wishing I could bury myself and never have to face him again.
Even now, with my body satisfied and my mind numb, I know the truth: Markian Sharov owns me in ways I can’t escape.
Chapter Twelve - Markian
Her sounds echo in my mind, louder than the rain against the windows, louder than the measured voices around this table. I can’t shake the image: Jessa’s mouth parted, eyes glazed, her body clutching my hand as she broke for me in the dining room. The way she fought it—her thighs trembling, her shame and her need warring on her face—haunts me.
Even now, as I sit across from Alexei and Lui in the Bratva’s private suite, I find myself distracted, blood hot, the taste of her still on my tongue.
We’re supposed to be making decisions. The round table is buried under maps of the city, stacks of files, grainy photos, and lists of names—territory, assets, threats, and debts. The real work of the Bratva, where a single wrong word means blood. Alexei runs a hand through his hair, his expression tight, sharp blue eyes flicking between us.
“Chris is moving faster than we thought,” he says, voice low. “He’s been talking with the Sokolov crew, looking for leverage. He still acts loyal, but the minute he finds a better deal, he’ll burn us.”
Lui grunts, shuffling through the photos, then holds one up. “We should’ve handled him last month. You want me to send the boys to his club tonight?”
I lean back, considering. Chris Jenkins, the American with the too-bright smile and the mouth that never learned to shut up. We’ve given him time. Too much time, maybe. He’s greedy, clever, just unstable enough to be useful… right up until he becomes a threat. That’s always the way.
Alexei meets my gaze. “It’s time we put the plan into action. He’s too unpredictable. If we wait, he’ll make his move first.”
I nod, quiet but firm. “Do it.”
Lui’s mouth twists in a half smile. “You want an accident, or something they’ll remember?”
“Accident. Car, maybe. Make it look like he got careless.” I drum my fingers on the table, pulse racing. “Make sure his people know what happens to traitors, but don’t give them a martyr.”
