Page 34 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
He brings me in on his arm, my dress clinging to me like a second skin, high heels biting at my arches, every thread chosen to display his power, not my comfort.
The titlewifeweighs heavier than any velvet or gold. Every time someone turns to greet us, I feel the chain tighten at my throat. Eyes flick over me—measuring, guessing, judging. Some with thinly veiled envy, others with open skepticism.
Why her? their gazes seem to ask.What is she to him?
My smile is brittle. I memorize every gesture: shake hands, nod, say the right thing. My voice feels distant, forced through a frozen jaw. My skin prickles with every sideways glance, every too-long stare.
I am Rostya Sharov’s possession on display, painted and polished, dragged deeper into a world where every kindness is a transaction and every word is a weapon.
He never leaves my side. His palm rests at my waist, fingers pressing lightly enough to seem affectionate, firmly enough that I cannot mistake the intent. Each time I falter—a stutter when a politician’s wife asks about my family, a stiff smile when a rival’s daughter remarks on my accent—his grip tightens.
He leans in, voice low and razor-sharp. “Behave.” The word is a blade sheathed in silk, cutting me where no one else can see.
I flush with shame and anger, pulse pounding under his hand. He steers me through introductions like a wolf guiding a lamb through a den of his own making. Even when he lets me go, the ghost of his touch burns in my side, branding me as his.
Beneath the perfect surface, the storm simmers. Every correction, every whispered warning, every reminder of my place builds the pressure inside me. My smile doesn’t crack, but inside, my fury smolders, coiling tighter, waiting for release.
He leans close again, another warning smile for the room—his lips brushing my ear, his words for me alone. “You belong here. Start acting like it.” The chandelier light glints off the wedding band on my hand, and I dig my nails into my palm, desperate for any pain that is mine, not his.
Tonight, I play the part, but behind every smile, every nod, every perfectly chosen word, the fire grows. I know that sooner or later, I will burn him back.
The party blurs past me—a thousand voices, a hundred polished smiles. The only sound that matters is the angry rush of blood in my ears. I last as long as I can, swallowing my fury, biting down on every retort until I taste blood.
Finally, after a careless comment from a councilman’s wife about myobedience,I snap.
Rostya feels it before I speak. His grip hardens at my waist, steering me away from the laughter, away from the crowd. He drags me down a hall lined with dark oil paintings, past velvet curtains and silent, watching guards, until we reach a drawing room glowing gold with lamplight but empty of people.
The moment the door clicks shut, I twist free, rage boiling over. My hand finds the nearest glass—wine half finished, trembling in my fist, and I hurl it at the marble tiles. It shatters, shards flying, the sound sharp and violent. The silence after is worse. My chest heaves, my hands shake, but the fury in me burns brighter than any shame.
“Are you happy now?” I spit, voice rough, trembling with anger that refuses to be fear. “You’ve ruined my life. You parade me around like a trophy, a puppet, a prisoner in silk! Do you even see what you’ve made me?”
He stands there, silent, studying me with eyes like ice. His lips flatten into a thin, hard line. He looks as if he’s deciding whether to strike me, to break me, or to applaud. I see the calculation, the tension in his shoulders, the irritation at my defiance… and the flicker of something else: fascination, or maybe admiration.
I push on, tears stinging my eyes, my voice shaking but unbroken. “You think you own me? You think if you chain me up and dress me like your wife, I’ll just forget who I was? That I’ll become what you want?” My hands curl into fists, my nails digging crescent moons into my palms. “You haven’t won. I’m still here. You can humiliate me, you can threaten me, but you will never make me love you.”
The words hang in the air, raw and jagged. For a heartbeat, my rage is all that exists. I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch, letting him see every bruise he’s left, every scar he’s carved into my pride.
He watches me, unmoving. I see his jaw flex, his eyes narrow not in anger, but in consideration, as if my defiance is a riddle he can’t quite solve. He’s a man who lives for control, who demands obedience from the world and everyone in it.
Yet, standing here, trembling but unbowed, I see that what I am in this moment is the one thing he can’t master: a fire that refuses to die.
The words spill out before I can stop them. Hot, reckless, the taste of glass and blood still sharp on my tongue. “I won’t raise a child in your blood-soaked empire,” I snap, voice breaking. “I won’t let you turn anything innocent into a weapon for your war. I’ll run, Rostya. I’ll disappear. I’ll—” The threat leaps free, unthinkable until this second, trembling on the edge of desperation. “I’ll end this pregnancy before I let you trap me with it.”
The air in the room crackles, thick and electric. For a heartbeat, his face is unreadable. Then something inside him snaps. In two steps he’s on me, his hand clamping my arm, bruising me through silk. His grip is iron, his breath hot against my cheek, but his voice—God, his voice—is low and lethal.
“You will never escape me. Not you. Not the child.” Each word falls like the drop of a guillotine blade. “You are mine, every piece of you, now and forever.”
His fingers dig in, not quite pain but close, as if reminding me what he could do. I see the struggle in his eyes, rage leashed, violence coiled tight but not unleashed. He could break me, right here, right now. He cages me with his words, with the threat of his will, not the force of his hands.
That restraint chills me deeper than any slap could. It’s a promise, a vow that he’ll never let me go—not with bars or bruises, but with chains I can’t see, can’t fight, can’t ever slip. The room spins around me, air thin, my own heartbeat a drum of terror in my ears.
He holds me just a second longer, the world shrinking to the circle of his grip and his breath and the cold finality in his eyes. Then, just as suddenly, he lets me go. I stagger back, myarm aching, the echo of his touch lingering like a bruise yet to bloom.
The silence between us is suffocating. I see the line we’ve crossed, scorched and irreparable. My fury gutters, burned down to exhausted terror. I don’t cry—I refuse him that satisfaction—but I can’t stop shaking, my breath jagged, my resolve fraying at the edges.
Without another word, I bolt for the door. My heels scrape on marble as I flee, the ghost of his promises chasing me down the empty, golden-lit corridor. I don’t look back, but I know—no matter how far I run, or how fiercely I swear to fight him; his shadow will stretch long behind me.
My resolve is battered, my hope worn thin, but somewhere inside, a flicker of defiance stubbornly refuses to die. He may cage me, threaten me, try to own every part of me. But I am not finished fighting. Not yet.
