Page 27 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
His indifference is so complete it’s as if I’m invisible, as if last night never happened, as if he didn’t pin me to the wall and burn me to ash with nothing but his hands and his mouth.
I can’t meet his eyes. My face burns with a shame I can’t swallow, anger simmering under my skin like fever. I thought I was prepared for more dominance, for him to gloat or threaten, for the echo of the night to poison the morning with its heat.
This cold dismissal—this way he acts as though I am nothing, as though I am air—hurts in a way I didn’t see coming.
I poke at my breakfast, pushing scrambled eggs across the plate, unable to eat. He flips a page, sips his coffee, and I want to throw the mug at his head just to see him react, just to prove I still exist in his world.
He’s untouchable. Every second his silence stretches, it makes the memory of last night feel less real, less like a wound and more like a dream that meant nothing to him.
What twists the knife is the ache blooming in my own chest—the sick pulse of disappointment. Why should it matter to me if he regrets it? Why should I crave acknowledgment or even anger? It doesn’t matter why; I just do. I want him to look at me, to see me, to admit with a word or a glance that I was not just another thing to be used and discarded.
The realization is a slap, raw and cold. I want his attention. I want him to see me, even if it’s only to hate me. I grip the fork so tight my knuckles ache, unable to understand when this shift happened—when my fear of him became tangled with something so much uglier.
Confusion and bitterness crawl through me. I force myself to swallow a mouthful of coffee, the taste sour andpointless, and stare at the white tablecloth, pretending I am anywhere else.
I can feel his presence like gravity, pulling every thought back to last night, back to everything I cannot escape.
My nerves fray with every heartbeat, every moment of thick, silent tension. I can’t taste my food, can’t seem to breathe right. My skin crawls with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his silence. Every time Rostya flips a page or sips his coffee without looking at me, my shame and anger knot tighter. The ache for acknowledgment curdles into something sharp and ugly.
A maid steps behind me, soft and careful, and pours too much coffee into my cup. It spills over the edge, dark liquid splashing across the gleaming white tablecloth, spreading toward my plate.
The heat of all my bitterness finds its target. I snap. “Are you blind? Can’t you see what you’re doing?” My voice is too loud, brittle, slicing through the hush like a whip. The entire room freezes. I see the servant flinch, her face going pale, hands jerking back so quickly she nearly drops the carafe. She murmurs something apologetic, but the damage is already done.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she murmurs, cheeks flushed pink.
The look on her face guts me. It’s not just fear—it’s humiliation, a flash of old pain in her eyes that makes me want to be sick. I open my mouth, desperate to undo what I’ve done. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t… please. It’s fine. I didn’t mean to snap.” My hands shake, coffee still dripping from the cup as the maid backs away with her eyes downcast.
The rest of the staff move more quietly than ever, heads ducked, hands trembling. Even Rostya glances over, expression unreadable, before returning to his paper.
Guilt claws at me, sudden and suffocating. I want to disappear. For the first time, I really see myself: a stranger wearing my skin, someone sharp and cruel, quick to wound the powerless just because I’m powerless too. My heart pounds, and I’m horrified by what I’ve become, what this house is doing to me. I’m not just a captive. I’m being reshaped, every harsh edge of this place grinding me down into something colder, harder, meaner.
I stare at my reflection in the silver teapot: drawn, pale, eyes rimmed with red. I don’t recognize myself. The realization shakes me. I think of how easily Rostya can cut a room to silence with a single word, how he rules with icy indifference, how he has always used cruelty to keep the world in line.
Now, here I am, using the same weapon. Not against him, but against someone who never deserved it.
The terror isn’t just that he holds me captive, it’s that I am becoming like him. My anger, my hardness, my need to lash out just to feel anything but shame. It’s not just his ring or his orders binding me. It’s this darkness, creeping into me, molding me into a reflection of the man I thought I could hate from a safe distance.
I mumble another apology, but the words sound hollow. I sit, fists clenched, promising myself I will not let this house, this life, strip away the last of who I am. Even as I wonder if it’s already too late.
Holding in a sob, I stand from the table and slip into the cool hallway.
The walls close in, every corridor stretching too long, every polished surface reflecting my own frantic eyes back at me. Even when the house is full of silence, I feel watched by the guards at every doorway, by the weight of the chandeliers above, by the ghost of Rostya’s presence in every gilded shadow. Everydoor I try is locked, every window too high, every breath caught in my chest like a bird desperate to escape.
I pace through the halls, hands clenched, jaw tight. I hate this place. I hate the endless rooms with no exit, the endless reminders that I am not free. But what curdles deepest isn’t just hatred for my cage or for Rostya, it’s the way my body aches for him even as my mind screams rebellion.
I press a hand to my ribs, cursing the heat that won’t fade.
“I hate you,” I whisper into the empty corridor, but the echo is weak.
The truth is worse than hatred. Laced through the anger is something sharp and aching. I want his attention, his eyes burning into me. I want him to see me again, to want me the way he did last night, even if it’s only with that brutal, punishing hunger.
I hate myself for it. For craving his fire, for missing the way his hands made me forget everything except him. The ache in my chest won’t leave, no matter how tightly I grip my own arms.
I imagine screaming at him, letting the anger boil over. In my mind I storm into his office, slam my fists into his chest.
“You don’t own me!”I shout at the memory, my voice bouncing back off the marble. I picture myself demanding,“Let me go! Give me back my life!”
The fantasy is sweet for a second—until I see his face, see the twist of his mouth, the way he’d catch my wrists, yank me flush against him.
