Page 31 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
Something in his expression shifts. Softer, then colder, the mask snapping back into place. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says, voice tight. “This isn’t your world, Jessa.”
Tears prick at my eyes, but I shake my head. “I know, but I had to.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then reaches out, almost against his will, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger at my jaw, warm despite the blood, the violence, the death swirling around us.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he repeats, but this time his voice is softer, laced with something I almost recognize. Longing.
I swallow, trying to steady my voice. “I just needed to know you were safe. Even if you hate me.”
He is silent, searching my face, the war between rage and relief written in the lines around his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might say something more, but then Alexei calls his name, voice sharp with urgency. Markian’s hand drops away.
“Go with Lui,” he says, voice firm. “Stay out of the way.”
He turns back to the chaos, shoulders squared, already retreating into the role of leader, soldier, Bratva heir. I watch him go, my heart aching, knowing that for a moment at least, he is alive—and that is enough.
I move back toward the cars, Lui appearing at my side, face grim. He doesn’t speak, just steers me away from the worst of the carnage. I let him. I’ve gotten what I need: Markian is alive. Even if I can never undo what I’ve done, even if he never forgives me, at least I haven’t lost him.
That has to be enough.
I wait by the car, barely breathing, my arms wrapped tight around myself as the city slowly comes to life around us.
Sirens echo in the distance, police lights stutter in the periphery, and everywhere there’s the crackle of radios, the sharp bark of orders, the metallic tang of blood in the air.
Lui leans against the fender, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving me. He’s silent, watchful—a guard and a judge all in one.
I don’t try to speak to him. What would I say? I just keep my eyes down, listening to the chaos around us, trying not to replay the sound of Markian’s voice when he told me to stay out of the way.
Every so often I look up, searching for Markian in the sea of men.
When I see him finally striding toward us, there’s a knot in my stomach so tight I think I might be sick. He moves through the survivors and the wounded with the unmistakable confidence of someone who belongs to this world, bloodied and bruised but still unbroken.
He doesn’t slow as he approaches. He just stops in front of me, his shadow falling long over the asphalt. His face is streaked with soot, jaw set, eyes unreadable. The men behind him keep their distance; everyone knows better than to interrupt now.
Markian’s gaze lands on me and lingers. The world narrows. My heart hammers so hard I can barely hear anything else.
He speaks quietly, voice cold and clear. “I know you called Chris.”
For a second I can’t breathe. The street spins around me. I open my mouth, close it again, and then the words just tumble out, voice breaking, small and desperate.
“I’m sorry.” Tears sting my eyes, hot and humiliating. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know, I didn’t understand. I just wanted to warn him. I thought…”
The words fail. The weight of it all—my mistake, the blood on the street, the dead and the dying—crushes me from the inside. I step closer, unable to keep from reaching for him, and bury my face against his chest, against the bloodied ruin of his suit.
He stands there for a moment, unmoving. I feel every heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breath. Then, slowly, his arms close around me: hard, possessive, inescapable. He holds me tightly, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear.
“You need to be punished,” he murmurs, voice low, soft, and dark with something that makes my whole body shiver. There’s mockery in it, a rough edge, the promise of something I can’t name.
I know I should pull away. I should hate him, hate myself, hate the violence, the control, the way he always seems to own me no matter what I do.
As his arms tighten, as his words curl hot and dangerous against my skin, my knees go weak. The world falls away, leavingonly the terrifying, magnetic man holding me like I’m already his again.
His grip isn’t gentle. It’s the kind that promises I’ll never outrun him, never escape the gravity that binds us. I cling to him, shaking, silent tears soaking into the ruined fabric. For a moment, neither of us says anything more.
There’s only the hush of the morning after violence, the knowledge of what’s been lost, what can never be undone.
He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. His thumb wipes away a tear, his eyes searching mine. “You don’t get to run,” he says, voice quieter but no less absolute. “Not after this.”
I can only nod, breathless, overwhelmed. I don’t know what I want anymore. Freedom, forgiveness, or just for him to never let go.
