Page 31 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
In the silence after the storm, I promise myself: whatever comes, I will never let her be lost to the dark.
Chapter Fifteen - Karmia
The world is quiet in the aftermath, washed in pale, watery light that slips around the old curtains and pools on the marble floor. Rain still ticks from the gutters, the garden outside heavy with mist. The storm’s violence has left everything fragile, as though the estate itself is holding its breath.
I wake tangled in heavy covers, warmth clinging to my skin. For a few suspended moments I lie perfectly still, unsure where I am, unsure what time it is, until the ache in my body brings everything rushing back—his hands on my waist, the rough drag of his mouth along my throat, the bruised heat of his body pinning me to the sheets.
The memory comes like a slap and a caress at once, so sharp it steals the breath from my lungs.
I shift, careful not to move too much, not to rustle the covers. Rostya lies beside me, broad shoulders bare, face half shadowed even in the weak morning. He looks peaceful, almost, less a warlord, more a man lost in dreamless sleep. I know better. I’ve seen the darkness behind those closed eyes.
My heart kicks, panic prickling under my skin. I need to move. I need distance, space, air. Gently, I slip from the bed, bracing for any sign that he might stir. He doesn’t. His breathing stays deep and slow, and I am grateful for the small mercy.
I pad across the carpet, scooping up my robe, knotting it tight as though it could bind the memories away. I tell myself it was only the storm, just adrenaline and fear, a blackout, a mistake. An accident. Not real. Not anything that should change the course of my life.
Even as I repeat the words, they ring false. There’s something warm and dangerous in my chest, an ember that refuses to die. Every time I remember the way he looked at me,eyes gone dark and wild, I feel the same ache bloom again, equal parts shame and longing.
I pause at the window, looking out over rain-drenched stone and dripping roses. The estate looks softer in this light, less a fortress and more a house haunted by ghosts and possibilities. For a moment, I press my palm to the cold glass, letting the chill steady me. I need the cold, need it to remind me who I was before all of this—before Rostya, before the ring, before last night tore through every barrier I’d managed to raise.
Still, the warmth lingers. I remember the weight of his body, the press of his lips, the way I’d answered him—how I’d craved him, even as I tried to resist. My mouth remembers the taste of his skin. My hips remember the way he fit against me, the way we burned together until the storm was nothing compared to what we created.
I whisper to myself, “It was just the storm.”
Still, the truth pulses with every heartbeat: I want more. I want him, even if I can’t forgive him. Even if I hate myself for wanting.
The rain outside softens, the world growing lighter, but inside, I feel the danger only sharpening. I wrap my robe tighter, swallow the truth, and try to pretend that last night didn’t matter—knowing all the while that nothing in my world will ever be the same.
I retreat into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind me. The tile is cold beneath my bare feet, the air sharper here, tinged with the scent of soap and rain. I turn on the tap, letting water rush into the porcelain basin. My hands are unsteady as I cup a handful and splash it against my cheeks. The chill bites, shocking me out of the haze of memory, at least for a moment.
I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white. My reflection stares back, pale and wide-eyed, hair tangled around my face, lips still swollen. There’s a softness in the girl looking back—a glow in her cheeks, a fullness to her mouth—that unsettles me. She looks like someone who has been wanted, claimed, cherished. That’s not who I am. Or who I thought I was.
The shame bubbles up, bitter and hot. I drop my gaze, but the memories force their way in, unstoppable. I see flashes: his hands pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth devouring mine like I’m the last thing he’ll ever taste. The urgency, the hunger, the way he had lost himself in me and dragged me right over the edge with him.
My mind jumps to the warehouse—the gunfire, the chaos, the moment he had thrown himself in front of me, shielded me with his own body. That was the beginning of the unraveling, I realize. That was the first crack in my armor, the first time I wondered if there was something in him beyond violence and command.
Even now, as the shame scalds my cheeks, I know there’s more burning beneath it. Want. Need. The ache to feel his hands on me again, to see that dark, desperate look in his eyes. It terrifies me, the knowledge that my body will always remember, no matter what my mind tries to erase.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the sink harder. “No,” I whisper, barely audible above the rush of water. I force myself to remember who he is. Rostya Sharov, the man who caged me, who dragged me from my life, who wields fear like a weapon and bends my world to his will. He is carved from violence, control, ruthless certainty. He is not safe. He is not gentle. He is not mine.
I list the reasons I should hate him like talismans, clinging to each one. He keeps me captive. He’s takeneverything. He’s broken me, reshaped me, branded me as his. Each reason is a stone, heavy and cold, but still I clutch them, desperate for protection not from him, but from myself.
If I let go, if I surrender to what I feel, I know I’ll be lost. The worst part is, I’m not sure I want to be found.
When I finally step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped tight around my hair, I nearly walk straight into his gaze. Rostya sits propped against the headboard, the sheets tangled at his waist, his chest bare and marked. His eyes are heavy, dark blue in the washed-out light, fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing.
I freeze, pulse tripping. He says nothing at first—just watches, silent, his face unreadable. It’s like he’s weighing something, measuring me, looking for evidence of what’s changed between us and refusing to give away a single clue about what he finds.
“Running away already?” His tone is almost casual, almost amused, but the weight behind the words is unmistakable. The room is too small for pretending. Everything between us is raw, stretched tight as a wire.
I keep my eyes on the dresser, knuckles tight as I fumble with a shirt that doesn’t really need adjusting.
“Hard to run when every door is locked,” I mutter, summoning sarcasm like a shield. It feels flimsy, but it’s all I have. “I was just getting dressed. Or is that forbidden now too?”
He huffs a laugh, the sound low and dangerous. “You can do as you like, so long as you don’t disappear.” The silence that follows is a challenge, a dare to look at him and say what I really mean. I don’t take it.
I busy myself with the buttons on my blouse, fingers trembling. I count them, twice, smoothing the fabric eventhough it’s perfectly straight. Every nerve in my body is lit up, each one screaming awareness of him, of his gaze, the memory of his mouth, the bruises that still burn along my skin. I can’t look at him. I won’t.
He doesn’t speak, but I can feel the silence thickening, wrapping around us. The storm outside may have passed, but something heavier hangs in the air between us. Every breath is a negotiation, every movement watched. I can feel last night written across my body like a secret carved into flesh, one I’m determined not to let him see in my face.
