Page 22 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
I take the seat across from him, spine rigid. My palms sweat against the napkin as I lay it on my lap. Silverware gleams between us. The table feels as wide as the Atlantic. The tension is thick enough to taste.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me, eyes flicking over my face, searching for something I can’t name. My pulse races, a rabbit in a snare. I force myself to meet his gaze, trying to match his cold calm, but my heart is tripping all over itself, desperate for a clue about what he wants from me now.
Finally, he speaks, his voice even. “Eat, Jessa. You need your strength.” His tone is gentle, almost. A flicker of something passes over his face before it vanishes.
Lunch is served by silent, practiced hands: soup, fresh bread, roast chicken. The maid pours wine, then disappears, leaving us alone with the click of the closing door.
I force myself to take a spoonful of soup, swallowing around the tightness in my throat. The food is delicious, but every bite feels strange, like accepting something from the devil.
He watches me in silence, his gaze heavy. After a while, he cuts into his own meal, movements precise. For a time, the only sounds are the scrape of cutlery and the rain against the window.
We eat in silence. Every time I risk a glance up, Markian’s eyes are already on me, cool and assessing, watching each move I make. I try not to look at him. I focus on my soup, on my trembling hands, on anything but the heat of his gaze.
It’s impossible to ignore. It settles over my skin like a velvet noose, reminding me with every heartbeat that I’m not free, not safe, not anything but his captive.
The food has no taste. I chew, swallow, set my fork down, and pick it up again. Across the vast expanse of the table, he eats with precise, careful motions.
The quiet is oppressive, filled only by the scrape of cutlery and the slow, persistent tapping of rain against thewindowpanes. It’s almost a relief when I hear the distant sound of the maids cleaning in the next room. Almost.
I can’t stand the silence any longer. The words slip out before I can stop them, my voice tight. “What are you going to do with me?”
He looks up, his gaze unreadable. “I plan to keep you.”
It’s so matter-of-fact, so cool and unapologetic, that I can only stare at him, stunned. “Keep me?” I echo, anger flaring. “I’m not a possession. I don’t belong to anyone. Least of all you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. His face is calm, but I see something darker flicker behind his eyes. He lifts a hand and makes a sharp gesture; the maids, attentive as ever, slip from the room and close the door behind them. We’re alone.
He rises, moving around the table, each step slow, measured, deliberate. I grip the edge of my chair, a bolt of panic mixing with something that feels too much like anticipation. My pulse races as he comes to stand at my side, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Markian, don’t—” I manage, voice strangled, but he ignores me.
Without warning, his hand slides up my thigh, beneath the hem of my skirt. His touch is bold, unforgiving, fingers pressing firmly against my bare flesh. I jerk, breath catching, the shock of it making me clutch the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turn white.
He leans down, his lips at my ear, voice a whisper just for me. “No one else can make you feel like this, Jessa. No one else will ever get the chance.”
A sound escapes me—part protest, part need. I hate myself for it, hate the way my body responds before my mind can catch up. Heat spirals out from where he touches me, my legs parting involuntarily, my back arching ever so slightly toward his hand. My heart hammers against my ribs, so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“Stop,” I whisper, but it comes out weak, unconvincing. I want to push him away, to slap him, to remind him that I am not his plaything. But all I can do is grip the table, lips parting, thighs trembling as he strokes me with maddening skill. My body betrays me again.
He drags his fingers along my slick heat, slow and possessive, as if he has all the time in the world. “You want me to stop?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my cheek. “Then tell me you don’t want this.”
I can’t. The words die on my tongue. My hips roll helplessly into his palm, chasing the pressure, desperate for more. I despise myself for how quickly I surrender, for the way I crave his touch even as my mind screams at me to fight.
He laughs softly, a dark, satisfied sound. “That’s what I thought. You can’t. You won’t. Because you’re mine, Jessa. Only mine.”
I want to hate him. I want to hate the way he makes me burn, the way my body opens for him, the way my fear twists into aching want. I’m lost. All I can do is clutch the table and try to breathe as he teases me, working me with steady, relentless strokes until I’m trembling, every nerve on fire.
He moves back at last, withdrawing his hand, leaving me flushed and desperate, thighs pressed tight together beneath thetable. I gasp, trying to catch my breath, trying to find some shred of dignity in the mess he’s made of me.
Markian straightens, his eyes heavy with promise and possession. He wipes his hand on his napkin, utterly casual. “Remember that, the next time you think of trying to escape.”
I glare at him, defiance warring with desire, shame a hot flush up my throat. “You can’t keep me forever,” I manage, though my voice shakes.
He only smiles, cold and knowing. “We’ll see.”
I want to scream, to hurl my glass at him, to make him feel some fraction of the helplessness he’s forced on me.
All I can do is sit there, hands trembling, body aching, and hate how much I want him to do it again. The rain beats harder against the windows, and I close my eyes, fighting tears—of anger, of shame, of need. I’m his prisoner.
