Page 30 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
Chapter Fifteen - Jessa
I beg to go with the backup convoy. At first, Lui refuses, his jaw set, voice flat, insisting it’s too dangerous. “You stay here. If Sharov wants you, he’ll call. It’s not safe, not for you.”
I must look desperate enough, panic pouring off me in waves, because after a long, tense silence, he finally sighs and jerks his chin toward the car. “Get in. And you do what I say, not a word, not a sound. Understood?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Guilt presses against my ribs, sharper the closer we get to the city. I wring my hands in my lap the entire drive, mind bouncing between dread and desperate hope.
The only thing I can think about is Markian: how my one stupid phone call might have gotten him killed. I replay it over and over, wishing I could reach back through time and stop myself.
It’s too late. The damage is done.
I watch Lui drive, his hands steady, eyes cold and unreadable in the pale predawn light. I want to ask him for news, for reassurance, but I bite my tongue. Every second stretches like an eternity. My nails dig crescents into my palms, sweat cooling on my skin. I try to imagine what I’ll say to Markian if I see him again. If he’s alive. If he’ll even want to see me.
When the call comes, the sharp buzz of Lui’s phone makes my heart stop. He answers, voice clipped and professional.
“Where are you?” Markian’s voice crackles from the speaker, rough, impatient. He replies, “I’m on my way!”
That’s when I hear the first of the gunfire. It’s so close that I duck instinctively, mouth dry, but Lui only laughs.
By the time we reach the block, the sun is just beginning to rise, turning the wet streets to silver and pink. Nothing softens what we find.
Carnage.
The first thing I see is the glass everywhere, glittering in the gutter, crunching under the tires as we roll to a stop. The air stinks of smoke and gunpowder, the kind of smell that never washes out.
Two cars burn near the curb, their frames twisted and blackened. The sidewalk is smeared with blood, puddling in cracks and running in slow rivulets toward the storm drain.
Bratva soldiers are everywhere, some limping, some sprawled on the pavement, others barking orders as they haul the wounded to the curb. A few bodies lie still, faces I don’t recognize.Enemy soldiers,I tell myself.
Then I see Anton—pale and shaking, a medic pressing gauze to his thigh—and my stomach twists. He looks up, meeting my eyes for a split second, then looks away.
I push forward, desperate, barely hearing Lui’s warnings to stay back. I stumble over debris, stepping over shell casings, broken phones, a discarded shoe.
“Markian!” I call, my voice raw and high, drowned by sirens in the distance.
“Miss!” one of the soldiers shouts, but I barely register him. All I can see is the chaos, all I can feel is terror. What if he isn’t here? What if the next body I see is his?
Then, a few yards away, I see Chris. He lies face down in the gutter, his suit shredded, the back of his head matted with blood. For a moment, the world spins. I think I’m going to be sick. I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to retch, but I don’t stop. If Chris is dead, maybe Markian is alive.
Please, God, let him be alive.
I skirt around Chris’s body, stumbling over broken glass, searching every face, every uniform. Shouts echo off the buildings, men barking into radios, someone cursing as he ties a tourniquet around another’s leg. The world has become nothing but sound and color and the sickening smell of death.
I keep moving, my feet numb, my vision blurry. It feels like walking through a nightmare, every step slower than the last. I scan the crowd, searching for the one person I need to see more than anyone else in the world.
And then I see him.
He stands with his back to me, shirt torn, blood smeared down his arm, but upright—alive. He’s talking to Alexei, both men battered and wild-eyed, hands gesturing as they count heads, check on the wounded. Relief hits me so hard I nearly drop to my knees.
“Markian!” I call again, louder this time, voice breaking.
He turns, eyes searching, face grim. For a heartbeat, he just stares at me, as if he can’t believe I’m real. Then he stalks toward me, blood and soot streaked down his face, jaw tight with anger and something else, something like relief.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The noise of the world fades, leaving only the sound of my heartbeat and the ragged edge of his breathing.
He stops a few feet away, eyes raking over me—checking for wounds, for threats. “What are you doing here?” His voice is harsh, barely above a whisper.
I open my mouth, but the words catch. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done. Instead, I choke out, “I had to make sure you were alive.”
