Page 12 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
The lie falls heavy, solid, carrying itself as truth.
The silence that follows stretches, taut as wire. Cigar smoke drifts in the stillness, unbroken, until one of them clears his throat and quickly looks down. Another shifts uncomfortably, pouring vodka, though his glass is already full. Their gazes slide between each other, measuring not the words themselves but the certainty in them.
Certainty is power here. Certainty is proof, and I give them only that.
I don’t elaborate. I don’t offer explanations, no name, no detail for them to pick apart. I leave them the edge of my conviction, nothing else. It’s enough. They know pressing further means stepping into a place they don’t belong.
Their silence is consent, reluctant but binding.
I push back my chair, the scrape loud against the wood, deliberate. Rising to my feet ends the matter, ends the conversation on my terms. The vodka remains unfinished, the smoke still curling above the table as I turn from them.
They can whisper when I leave. They can speculate, wonder, scramble to piece meaning together. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve set the ground, shifted the balance.
When I close the doors behind me, the silence they’re left with will remind them: I am not theirs to bind.
The doors thud shut behind me, the council room sealed in its haze of smoke and whispers. Out here, the air is cleaner,sharper, the echo of my footsteps striking against the marble floor.
The corridor stretches long and shadowed, portraits of long-dead men glaring down as though measuring my worth against theirs.
Inside, I was the wolf, untouchable in my chair, every gaze bending beneath mine. Out here, I’m only a man walking briskly, jaw tight, the mask of control pressed harder against my face than I’d like to admit.
Ivan’s stride falls in behind mine, measured, confident, the way it always does. He doesn’t speak right away, lets the silence drag until it feels deliberate. When his voice comes, it cuts through like a blade meant to test the skin, not kill.
“Since when,” he asks, tone edged with wry amusement, “do you have a fiancée?”
I don’t break stride. My steps stay steady, boots thudding a clean rhythm down the hall. My hands remain loose at my sides, though the urge to clench them itches beneath my skin.
“Find someone suitable to play the role,” I say flatly.
Ivan’s brow arches as I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His amusement lingers, but unease coils beneath it, a flicker in his gaze that betrays the weight of what just happened.
“That’s it?” he presses, voice lowering. “No explanation, no warning? Just conjure a phantom bride to throw at the wolves?”
My jaw flexes, but my tone stays clipped. “The Sokolovs will not have me tethered. Not their daughter. Not their leash. If I say I already have a fiancée, then I already have one. The rest is logistics.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. His eyes study me the way only Ivan dares, cataloging the sharpnessin my tone, the finality. “You’ve forced yourself into a corner,” he mutters. “The elders will want proof. A meeting. A name. You’ve given them no choice but to demand it.”
I stop in the corridor, turning just enough to face him. The chandeliers overhead cast fractured light across my shoulders, shadowing my face. My voice is lower now, rough with steel. “Then we’ll give them one. On my terms. Not theirs.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence presses in, heavier than the smoke I left behind. Ivan tilts his head, measuring, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his mouth. Not mocking, but knowing.
“You already have a plan,” he says softly.
My silence answers him.
He’s right, of course. The lie wasn’t made in desperation. It was weaponized, as every word I speak before the council is. They’ll expect her. They’ll demand her. I’ll deliver. It won’t be the girl they had in mind, not the one they want to leash me with, but someone else. Someone I choose.
Ivan reads it in the set of my jaw, the calm in my stride when I turn and begin walking again. He knows the clock started ticking the second the words left my mouth. He knows I’ll move mountains—or burn them—to ensure the lie becomes truth before the council presses its hand.
“Dark plan,” he says under his breath, keeping pace at my side. “Should I be worried?”
“You?” I glance at him, a thin shadow of a smile tugging at my lips. “Always.”
The echo of our footsteps carries us farther down the hall, the portraits watching, silent witnesses to a truth I don’t speak aloud: the Bratva believes the fiancée is real now. So she will be. Whether she wants to or not.
***
The monitors throw pale blue light across the room, cold and clinical, painting my hands white as I fold them on the desk. A dozen feeds loop through—entrances, back corridors, the warehouse yard—each a river of motion I can watch and still. The vodka sits untouched, a dark promise in a crystal glass, the surface unbroken. I don’t drink to think. Not yet.
