Page 36 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
I squeeze her hand, then sling my bag over my shoulder. Every motion feels surreal, my heart thudding in my ears. Alina peeks out the door, scanning the hallway, then nods for me to go.
I move through the house on bare feet, shoes in hand, trying to be nothing more than a shadow. The corridor is bathed in weak sunlight, the portraits on the walls staring down at me as I pass. I pause at the top of the staircase, listening for voices.
There’s no sign of Lui, the guards, even Markian himself. There’s nothing. Just the slow tick of a grandfather clock and the distant sound of someone washing up in the kitchen.
I take the servants’ staircase, each step careful, controlled. My breath comes short and fast, pulse racing. Every footfall feels like a countdown. My mind jumps to what could go wrong: a door opening, a shout, a strong hand grabbing my arm.
I force myself forward.
At the bottom of the stairs, the air is colder. The laundry smells like soap and wet fabric. Alina was right—the west side is empty, the old door’s latch loose. I push it open, slipping outside just as the first rays of sunlight warm the stone.
I pause in the shadow of the house, my breath misting in the morning chill. The manor stands tall and beautiful behindme. I take it in, imprinting the sharp lines of the roof, the glint of the windows, the way the gardens stretch toward the city.
For a heartbeat, I think of running back, of throwing myself into Markian’s arms and begging him to choose love over violence.
I know better. I know who he is. I know what he does to people who disappoint him.
With a trembling exhale, I slip through the narrow gate, shoes clutched to my chest. The street is waking up, the city alive with the promise of anonymity. I take a final look at the manor, feeling a strange ache in my heart. A goodbye to something that was never really mine.
Alina appears at a window above, watching, and for a second our eyes meet. She gives me a tiny nod. I nod back, then turn and hurry into the city, every step a victory, every breath sharp with hope and terror. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I have to keep moving, for myself and for the child growing inside me.
For the first time in months, I am truly free… and truly afraid.
Chapter Eighteen - Markian
I wake late, the world pressing down on me with the weight of last night’s vodka and too many bad memories. Sunlight slices through the curtains, too bright, too insistent. My head pounds; my ribs ache where the bruises haven’t yet faded.
I roll out of bed, stretch, and drag a hand over my face, trying to shake off the worst of the hangover. For a few minutes, the only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the distant clatter of someone in the kitchen.
The house feels different this morning, quieter somehow. Too quiet. I brush it off at first. Maybe she’s sulking, I tell myself, pouting in her room or hiding under the covers.
She’s done it before, after a fight or a night when I came back colder than I meant to. It’s a game between us, this push and pull. She gives me attitude; I take it and give it back. That’s just how it works. I almost look forward to it—the fire in her eyes, the sharp snap of her tongue.
Today, there’s nothing. Not even a slammed door or a muttered curse.
By midday, I start to notice the shape of her absence. There’s no sign of her in the halls. No footsteps echoing overhead. No snarky glare from the stairwell as I pass.
The maids move quietly, too quietly, eyes cast down. The chef asks if the girl is joining for lunch. I grunt a vague answer, but something cold and sharp twists in my gut.
“Go check on her,” I bark at a maid, waving her away from the dining room. “Tell her to get her ass downstairs.”
She scurries off. Ten minutes later, she returns, shaking her head, wringing her hands. “She’s not there, sir. Her room is empty. The bed’s made. I didn’t see her.”
I send another, sharper this time. “Look again. Everywhere.” She goes and comes back, pale and breathless. “No sign, sir.”
Still, panic doesn’t settle in, not at first. I’m not that kind of man. I don’t panic. I control. I command. I win.
Still, my voice turns hard when I call Lui in from the garage. “Find her. Now.”
He nods, eyes sharp. “You think she left? Walked out on her own?”
I don’t answer, just grit my teeth. “She didn’t leave. Not without help.” My mind races. The guards posted around the estate. The cameras, the locked doors, the gates that only open from the inside. No one slips out of this house without me knowing.
No one.
Within the hour, the house is a hive of movement. Lui and the guards tear through her room—closet, drawers, under the bed, bathroom trash. Her scent lingers, faint and sweet, but the space is empty. No clothes missing, but her small bag is gone, the Metro card I gave her for emergencies missing from my desk. The cameras are reviewed, frame by frame. One shows her, just a shadow in the servants’ hallway, bare feet, a bag clutched to her chest, eyes darting. Then nothing.
She vanishes, as if she melted into the walls. Smoke and mirrors.
