Page 33 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
“Eat,” I say simply. “You skipped dinner.”
She hesitates, weighing me, then lifts a piece of bread. I watch her bite, cautious at first, as if the food itself might be a trap. She tastes the tea, sips it, then sets it down, withdrawing into herself. I can see the questions sparking in her eyes; why this, why now, what changed?
I stand there, unmoving, my arms crossed. This is a test, and she doesn’t know she’s failing or passing or if there’s a right answer at all. I watch the play of suspicion, relief, hunger, and defiance on her face, and something inside me settles. She doesn’t know that I know. She doesn’t know what this meal means, what it costs, or what I intend.
It pleases me, the imbalance, the blade of knowledge hidden behind my back. I’ve always liked power most when it’s invisible, when the other person doesn’t even realize the rules have changed.
Beneath that, something else is shifting. My calm is not mercy. It is not forgiveness. It is a pause, a reordering of the battlefield. I don’t want to punish her. I want to decide what comes next. I want to weigh the future in my hand, to hold thissecret until I know how it will serve me, or how it might break us both.
The calm is more dangerous than my fury. Even I can feel that now. As I leave her to eat in silence, the tension coils tighter, promising that nothing in this house will ever be simple again.
When the house sinks into quiet, when the footsteps of guards fade and the last kitchen door swings shut, I find her alone in the hall outside my office. I don’t bother with pretense. I catch her wrist, draw her in, shutting the door behind us with a click that sounds final, like the closing of a cell.
No shouting, no storm. I want her in silence, want her to feel the gravity, not the chaos. I watch her from across the darkened office, see the way she lifts her chin, shoulders rigid, eyes wary but proud. There is defiance in the set of her mouth, and it infuriates and thrills me in equal measure.
I close the distance in two steps. My hand finds her stomach, fingers splayed with possessive certainty. The touch is not gentle. I press my palm flat, not just to feel the life that might be growing there, but to make sure she feels it too.
She tries to twist away, but I hold her still, locking her against the edge of my desk. I lean in, voice low, clipped, every syllable meant to sear. “You belong to me. The child belongs to me. There is no force in this world that will break this chain.” My eyes bore into hers, making the promise as real as the blood in her veins.
She stiffens, jaw clenched, hands fisted at her sides. I feel the tremor run through her—fear, outrage, maybe both—but she doesn’t cower. She will not yield, not even now. Her eyes meet mine, blazing, the green depths flickering with fury and something darker, something wounded and wild.
She doesn’t speak. Not a single word. Her silence is a challenge, a shield, a refusal to give me anything I haven’t already taken. For a second, rage simmers. Why won’t she beg, why won’t she cry, why won’t she break?
Beneath it, the thrill is undeniable. I want this fire. I want the fight. I want to know that even if she’s mine by law, by threat, by blood, she will not become something soft or easy.
The silence between us is alive, heavier than any scream. She trembles under my touch, but she does not bow. I see fear, yes, but I see fire too—enough to burn down every wall I build around her. It is intoxicating.
I hold her there, breathing in her defiance, the tension between us so taut it feels like a blade. For a moment, I let the chain settle around both our throats, knowing that now, with her and with this child, nothing will ever loosen its hold.
The house is dark and silent, save for the echo of distant rain against the eaves. I pour myself a drink in the study—vodka, no ice. The glass is heavy in my hand, the cold burn anchoring me to the present. I settle into the old leather chair, staring at nothing, letting the hush settle over me like a shroud.
***
Later, the quiet doesn’t bring peace. Instead, it drags my mind backward, past the day’s events, past the weight of the secret I now hold, back into the shadowed corridors of memory I try never to revisit.
I see my father’s face, hard and sharp as broken glass. I hear his voice—low, guttural, always a second from a snarl. Arguments crackling through the old house like gunfire. I remember the way the air changed when he was angry, the way the walls themselves seemed to shrink from him. The lessons he taught were never gentle. Control was a fist slammed into a wall.Loyalty was silence bought with bruises. Kindness was a story told by mothers and nannies, something that never survived the sound of boots on hardwood floors.
I remember cowering in the dark corners of the estate, small and unnoticed, heart jackhammering as he bellowed at my mother, at his men, at anyone foolish enough to test him. I remember the sharp, metallic scent of vodka on his breath, the heat of his anger, the cold calculation that followed every outburst. Safety was not a word I learned early. Warmth was foreign. All I knew was fear and the lessons that fear brings: anticipate, obey, survive.
Now, staring into the flickering amber of the drink, I ask myself—should I be afraid of fatherhood? Of creating something vulnerable, something that could bleed or shatter in my hands?
The answer surprises me. I am not afraid. Instead, I feel something raw ignite deep in my chest, a dark hunger, sharper than the thirst for power, more enduring than lust. The thought of a child—my blood, my legacy—doesn’t terrify me. It fills me with a new, consuming purpose.
It’s not sentiment, not softness. If anything, it’s the opposite. I want my child to be strong, unbreakable, untouchable. I want to build a bloodline that will never be weak, never be prey. The world that crippled me will serve as a warning, not a fate. The very fear that twisted my childhood becomes the justification for my control.
Karmia’s child—mychild—will not grow up cowering in corners, waiting for the next blow. They will learn to rule, not to shrink. My obsession with her, my possessiveness, my relentless control—all of it becomes necessary. Protection, I tell myself, demands strength, demands ruthlessness. The world is a pit of wolves; I’ll raise a wolf, not a lamb.
I drain the glass, staring at my reflection in the dark window. The ghost of my father lingers behind my eyes, but I push him away. I am not him. I am something new, something worse and therefore stronger. My cruelty will not be random, will not be wasted. Every chain I wrap around Karmia, every lesson I carve into this family, will be a shield: hard, unyielding, and absolute.
It is a bitter comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. I set the glass aside, breath slow and measured. I let the old violence in my bones become a vow: my child will never know fear as I did. My child will never be powerless. In the world I build, only the strong survive, and I will make them stronger than anyone who came before.
I tell myself it is enough. That obsession is protection. That ruthlessness is love. I convince myself, as every monster does, that this is what it means to build a future.
Alone in the darkness, that lie feels almost like truth.
Chapter Seventeen - Karmia
Crystal chandeliers blaze above us, scattering fractured rainbows over tables heavy with silver and glass. The room hums with a music I can’t quite catch: violins, laughter, the click of heels on marble. Everywhere, men and women circle each other with predatory grace, their smiles bright and hungry, their hands soft but dangerous. Rostya’s world: a masquerade of elegance and threat.
