Page 35 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
I flee through silent corridors, my heels echoing off marble and velvet, desperate for air, for space, for a corner of the world where Rostya’s shadow can’t reach. My body shakes as I press myself into a small alcove beside a dusty window, breath hitching, the gold and red of the estate blurring around me. Fury and terror churn inside—memories of his bruising grip, the bite of his words, and the guilt of what I threatened.
Would I really do it?
End the pregnancy, shatter the only thing that’s truly mine, just to spite him? I squeeze my eyes shut, chest tight. I hate him for making me think it. I hate myself for meaning it, even for a second.
I press my forehead to the cold glass. All I want is to breathe, but the universe has no mercy for trapped things.
A soft step behind me—a hush, but not the kind of silence that means safety. I whirl, heart leaping. There’s a man leaning in the shadowed doorway. He is well-dressed but rough around the edges, a scar slashing through one brow, eyes hard and sharp as glass.
He carries the same air of violence as Rostya, but colder, calculated. He lets the silence hang for a beat, studying me the way a predator studies prey.
“Don’t scream,” he says softly, almost pleasant. “I’m not here to hurt you. My name is Denis Volkov. I believe you know my brother, Ilya.” His lips twitch with something like humor, but the look never reaches his eyes.
My pulse hammers. The Volkovs. Rostya’s enemies. Blood rivals. I say nothing, arms crossed tight, every muscle locked.
Denis doesn’t miss a beat. He steps closer, his presence invasive but not panicked, as if he has all the time in the world.
“You’re in a dangerous position, Karmia. You don’t belong here. You never did. We know about the job you took, the way you were lured into this.” His voice drops, so low I almost don’t hear him. “You want out. I can give it to you. Work with me—betray the Sharovs—and I’ll give you what he never could. Freedom. Or power, if that’s what you want.”
His offer glitters with danger, wicked and sharp. My thoughts tumble: trusting Denis Volkov could mean suicide. Rostya would kill me if he knew. Denis’s words slide through the cracks in my rage, tempting, blinding. Could this be real, or just another trap?
I stare at him, torn, silence dragging between us. The world tilts. Part of me screams to run. Another part—thefurious, reckless part—leans toward him, hungry for escape, for vengeance, for something other than this endless suffocation.
Denis’s smile is slow, patient. “Think on it,” he says, backing away into the gloom. “Don’t wait too long.”
As I stand frozen in that quiet corner, the truth burns in my chest, but my fury hasn’t faded. It’s just found a new direction. With the Volkovs’ shadow now reaching for me, the cage feels even tighter, the stakes higher, and the game more deadly than ever.
Chapter Eighteen - Rostya
The news spreads like rot, slipping through locked doors and guarded halls—my wife, my bloodline, exposed for every jackal in the city to sniff at. No matter how I tighten the perimeter, it finds a way out.
At first it’s just a glance, a lingering look in the council chamber, the tightening of a rival’s mouth at a toast. Then the whispers multiply, twisting their way through every business meeting, every corridor, every conversation that halts when I enter the room.
“Congratulations,” they say, the word curdling in the air, heavy with threat. “A family man now, Sharov?” The laughter is never open, but the meaning is. To the Bratva, a child is leverage, a wife is a weak link. To rule by fear is to accept that no one must ever glimpse your underbelly.
Every handshake, every raised glass, tastes of poison. Eyes flick to Karmia, to the line of her jaw, the hint of curve beneath her dress, and I feel the calculations burning behind their faces. A wife. An heir. For the first time in years, I see my enemies daring to hope.
Fury licks at me, steady and cold. In the boardroom, I catch Ivan’s sidelong glance, the flicker of worry even he can’t hide. I nod once, and my orders ripple out like a command to war. I want names. I want every weak tongue, every loose thread, every careless whisper dragged into the light.
My men tear through files and records, cross-referencing calls, watching servants and soldiers alike. Spy or traitor, rumor-monger or simple fool, I don’t care. The truth is less important than the message that will follow.
When Ivan reports back, his face is ashen. “A kitchen boy,” he says, voice trembling under the weight of my gaze. “Agirl from the laundry. Maybe more.” The rot is deeper than I thought.
It changes nothing. I set my jaw, lighting a cigarette with hands that never shake. If they want a demonstration, I’ll give them one. Not just punishment, but spectacle. A lesson written in fear that will reach every corner of the city before morning.
***
That night, I watch from the shadows as the guilty are hauled into the courtyard—pale faces, shaking limbs, desperate pleas for mercy. I don’t offer any. The Bratva needs to remember what happens when the Sharov name is spoken without reverence.
The punishment is swift, brutal, final. No one will mistake my silence for weakness again. I watch the blood darken the stones and feel the storm inside me calm, if only for a moment.
Let them whisper now. Let them fear. Vulnerability is a lie I will erase with every drop spilled tonight. The lesson is simple—there is no leverage in my house but the kind I choose to allow.
***
The night is thick with threat. In the cold, unlit clearing beyond the estate walls, we find him—a Volkov scout, maybe, or perhaps just one of my own with loose lips and a weak will. It hardly matters. The message is the same.
He’s on his knees, face bruised, mouth bloodied from Ivan’s questioning. The men form a ring around us, silent, watching the dance of shadow and torchlight. I say nothing as Ivan hauls the traitor upright, making him look at me. There’s no need for speeches, no need for rage or threats. My calm is the sentence. My gaze, the knife.
