Page 23 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
My chest is tight, every breath shallow. Fear claws at me, sharp and unrelenting. I imagine bolting when the car slows, yanking the door open, running into the dark. The thought dies as quickly as it sparks.
Rostya sits beside me, too close, too steady. Every turn of his head, every flick of his gaze pins me back into the seat. I can’t escape him. Not here. Not anywhere.
The ring on my finger feels heavier than steel, binding me tighter than the locks on the car doors.
The convoy rolls to a stop, engines rumbling low before cutting off in unison. When the doors open, the stink of oil and rust pours in, heavy enough to coat my tongue. The air feels wrong here—too still, too hollow. No stray dogs barking,no distant hum of machinery. Just silence, stretched thin and brittle.
The warehouse looms ahead, its windows dark, its walls scarred with years of weather and neglect. Shadows crawl long across the cracked pavement, stretched unnaturally by the floodlights the cars spill behind us.
Every nerve in me screams danger. My chest tightens, breath sticking halfway in my throat. But the men don’t pause. Ivan swings out first, his gun already drawn, steps measured and steady. Miron follows, checking his weapon with a clinical calm that chills me more than anything. Then Rostya steps out, tall, composed, as if walking into the jaws of hell doesn’t warrant a second thought.
I trail behind them, my pulse hammering loud enough I’m certain they must hear it. My hands shake as I clutch my arms tight against myself, but their movements don’t falter. This isn’t fear to them—it’s routine.
Then the silence shatters.
Gunfire cracks through the night, sharp and violent. Bullets tear into the warehouse windows, glass exploding into glittering shards. Sparks jump off steel beams as rounds ricochet. The air erupts in thunder, in shouts, in the brutal chaos of war.
Figures burst from the shadows, Volkov men with rifles spitting fire, their shapes jagged in the flashes of muzzle light. Automatic bursts shred the stillness, tearing through crates, chewing into metal.
The Bratva advance fractures instantly, soldiers shouting orders, returning fire in quick, controlled bursts. Ivan barks something in Russian and dives for cover. Miron drops to oneknee, his weapon raised, calm as though he’s shooting at paper targets rather than men intent on killing us all.
I don’t think. I throw myself behind a stack of broken crates, the splinters tearing into my palms as I catch myself. The wood digs into my skin, the pain sharp and real, grounding me even as my ears ring. Smoke and gunpowder choke the air, acrid and suffocating.
My breath comes in gasps, shallow and quick. The ground vibrates under the staccato of gunfire, my body pressed small against the splintered boards. My hands sting, sticky with blood from shallow cuts, but I can’t move.
Then I hear the thud of boots, and they’re close.
I freeze. A shadow falls across the broken wood, blocking the faint light. I look up just as a figure looms over me, rifle raised, his face half hidden in the smoke. The barrel of his gun lowers, aimed directly at me.
The world narrows to that single black circle, the trigger waiting to be pulled.
The gun barrel tilts down further, a shadow blotting out the world. My breath seizes, lungs locking in the moment before the trigger pulls—
Then a force slams into me.
Rostya crashes into my side, dragging me down so hard the air blasts out of my chest. My back hits the concrete, cold and jarring, but his weight pins me, covers me. The shot never comes. Instead, the thunder of his pistol detonates against my ear, deafening, the muzzle flash so close it sears the dark.
The Volkov man jerks backward, blood exploding across the crates. He collapses, weapon clattering from his hands. Crimson spatters hot across my dress, soaking the lace, blooming over the silk like grotesque flowers.
My ears ring. My heart hammers. Above me, Rostya moves with savage precision. He doesn’t hesitate. His body shifts, firing again, ensuring the man won’t rise. Brutal. Unrelenting. The violence I’ve always feared unleashed not against me, but to shield me.
His hand clamps around my wrist, hard enough to bruise, anchoring me to him as if daring the world itself to pry me loose. His eyes blaze, cold fury sharpened into focus, as though my life is a line he refuses to let anyone cross.
Gunfire rages around us, each burst echoing off steel beams and concrete walls. Ivan’s voice cuts through the chaos, low and commanding, his shots controlled, methodical. Miron’s precision is surgical—every squeeze of the trigger deliberate, every target that rises immediately silenced. Together they hold the line, their efficiency frightening, terrifyingly calm amid the storm.
Rostya yanks me upright, his grip unyielding. My knees nearly buckle, but his arm locks around me, half dragging, half carrying me across the slick concrete. His jaw is set like stone, clenched with a fury that radiates hotter than the gunfire.
“Move,” he growls, though it feels less like a command to me than a promise to the enemy: Iwillget her out.
I stumble again, my legs weak, my lungs clawing for air thick with smoke, and the copper tang of blood. Bodies litter the floor, Bratva and Volkov alike, their blood spreading dark across the cracks. The stench clings to my throat, choking me, but still Rostya pushes forward, carving a path like a force of nature.
At last, the tide shifts. The Volkov men falter under the counterattack, their line breaking, shouts fracturing into retreat. Boots pound away, weapons discarded in panic. Silence falls in jagged bursts, broken only by the groans of the dying.
We emerge from the shadows into the cold night air beyond the warehouse. The sudden stillness hits harder than the gunfire. My legs tremble, refusing to hold me. My breath rips from my chest in ragged gasps, each one sharp.
My body shakes, my dress stained with blood that isn’t mine. My heart pounds against the iron grip still wrapped around my wrist.
I’m alive, but the way Rostya holds me says there’s more to come.
