Page 28 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
And then I imagine what would come next. His grip bruising, his mouth crashing onto mine, the taste of violence and surrender blurring together until I’m lost again. Both fantasies—freedom and surrender—choke me. I want to hate him, want tobreak free, but the memory of his touch is a chain I can’t shake loose.
I slide down against the wall, knees hugged to my chest. My breath shakes. “I hate you,” I say again, louder this time, wishing he could hear it. Wishing he would come, furious or hungry, just to prove I still exist to him.
The ache doesn’t leave. Neither does the craving. I press my forehead to my knees, torn between the urge to run and the urge to be caught. All I can do is sit in the silence, the fire and the fury burning a hole straight through me, not sure which would hurt more—to win or to lose.
***
Night drags slow, each minute stretching into hours that refuse to end. I lie awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, the bed beneath me too large, the sheets too soft, the emptiness too sharp. I turn over, again and again, but I can’t get comfortable. I can’t get warm.
Last night, his body was fire, a storm that devoured every thought. Now there’s nothing but the echo of that heat and the cold left behind.
The silence in the room throbs with memory. I remember his mouth on mine, the bruising grip of his hands at my waist. I remember the rough scrape of his voice when he said my name, the way his fucked me into the wall until I forgot my own name.
It replays, over and over, each time twisting tighter, growing heavier with every recall. The moment in the warehouse creeps in too—when he shielded me from bullets with his own body, when his arms made the world feel terrifyingly small and safe all at once.
I press my hands over my eyes, willing the memories away. “I hate him,” I whisper, my voice soft as a bruise.
“I’ll never forgive him.” I say it again, and again, like a prayer, a lifeline meant to pull me back from the edge. If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it. Maybe it will be true.
Under the words, my heart betrays me. Desire hums in my blood, low and insistent. My body aches for his hands, his mouth, his heat.
The need is a traitor, humming through my veins, refusing to yield to anger or sense. No matter how I curse him, no matter how I remind myself of what he’s done, I can’t kill the wanting. I know sleep won’t come. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
I curl tighter into the sheets, tucking my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself like I can build a shield out of cotton and skin. Alone in the dark, I tremble, not sure if it’s from fear or shame or the ache of longing that refuses to die. My war with Rostya is no longer just with him.
It’s a war I’m losing with myself.
Chapter Fourteen - Rostya
A storm has found the hills tonight, angry and relentless, battering the Sharov estate as if it means to tear the stones from their mortar.
Rain hammers against the old leaded windows, wind shrieks down the chimneys, and the lightning that splits the sky turns every gilded frame and velvet curtain into a shadow’s playground. Each thunderclap rattles glass and bone, setting my teeth on edge.
I don’t sleep when the weather turns like this. Too many years listening for the soft tread of enemies masked by rain, for the creak of doors masked by wind.
Storms make men sloppy, make alarms less reliable, make cover for things that shouldn’t move in the night.
I prowl the corridors, silent and watchful, double-checking that every guard is in his place, that no one has fallen asleep lulled by the lullaby of thunder.
Lightning flashes again, white and blinding, and for a heartbeat, the world is stark and clear. Then darkness slams back down, thicker than before.
Without warning, the power dies. Every chandelier, every sconce, every line of hidden wiring goes silent, plunging the estate into a darkness so deep it eats the air itself. For a moment, all I hear is the rain pounding the glass, the wind clawing at the stone, the hush of my own breath.
In the distance, candles and flashlights flare uncertainly, little islands of gold adrift in a sea of black. Here, in this stretch of hallway, I stand in pitch. No light, no voice, just the weight of my own vigilance.
I go still, senses sharp, old habits rising fast. For a moment I see nothing—then, at the far end of the corridor, a shape moves, faint and tentative. For a split second, the predator in me tenses for violence.
Then I see the smallness of the figure, the uncertain way she presses a hand to the wall, feeling her way. The ghost-pale glint of silk at her wrist. Karmia.
Of course. Wandering the house like a specter, even in the dark, even in a storm. Part of me wants to bark at her, demand what she thinks she’s doing. Another part is caught by a strange curiosity. What drives her out of bed, out of safety, into the unknown halls at this hour?
I watch her a moment longer, hidden by shadow, the urge to step out and claim her battling with the urge to simply observe. Even in darkness, even lost, she finds a way to haunt me.
She moves slowly through the dark, fingers trailing the wall, her hair wild, the hem of her nightdress catching against her ankles. She’s all but blind in the blackout, shadow folded into shadow, lost but stubbornly refusing to call for help. I can hear her breathing—a hitch with every gust of wind, a shallow gasp when thunder rattles the glass.
Lightning flashes, throwing her silhouette sharp against the wall. Then blackness drops again, thicker than before. I step out of the shadows, closing the distance silently.
She startles hard when my hand closes around her wrist. Her breath stutters, sharp and uneven. I feel her tense to pull away, but my grip is firm—protective, not bruising, my thumb pressed just above the frantic flutter of her pulse.
