Page 37 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
Her breath catches. She sees the shift in me, the hunger simmering beneath the cold front I try to wear. She steps back, spine pressed to the wall, but it isn’t fear this time. It’s anticipation—or maybe dread, or maybe both. I see her pulse jumping at her throat, the stubborn line of her jaw daring me to move, to claim, to take. My hands ache for her. My mouth aches for her. For just a second, I think about tearing down what littlespace is left, kissing her until the fight turns to fire and then to surrender.
I don’t. Not tonight. Restraint is agony—more than the bruises, more than the blood I’ve spilled. I let her go, watching her brush past me, chin high, a tremor running through her that she can’t quite hide. The sound of her footsteps fades, leaving nothing but the echo of longing behind.
For her, the escape is just a breath, a pause. She knows, as well as I do, that the storm between us is not over. It’s a hunger coiled tight in the darkness, waiting for the next spark.
I stay in the corridor long after she’s gone, fists clenched, fighting the urge to follow. I know what waits for us. The war will break again, and when it does, neither of us will walk away unscathed. The next time we clash, it will be all heat, all teeth, all need.
For now, I let her have her distance. I let the silence do what words cannot—a promise that soon, the storm will return, and this time, neither of us will run.
Chapter Nineteen - Karmia
The world narrows. Every morning, I wake to the same painted ceiling, the same velvet curtains, the same silence thick as fog.
Guards prowl the corridors, always close enough to see, never quite far enough to forget. The compound sprawls—gardens, halls, hidden rooms—but each door is a warning, each window a reminder of what’s out of reach. Freedom glitters just beyond the glass, impossible and infuriating.
My days blur together. Meals arrive at regular hours, delivered by silent maids who keep their eyes lowered. I walk the grounds in tight, measured circles under the gaze of Rostya’s men, pacing like a tiger in a too-small cage.
The only sound is the echo of my footsteps, and the hush gnaws at me until I want to scream just to shatter it.
Restlessness chews at my nerves. My mind spins, circling old fears and new anger; Denis Volkov’s offer lurks in the corners, too tempting, too dangerous. He promised freedom, power.
Trust is a currency I can’t afford. I’ve seen what men like Rostya—and the Volkovs—do with women who step out of line. I cannot trust Denis, not when his eyes gleamed with secrets and ambition. I won’t trade one prison for another, no matter how gilded the bars.
One afternoon, when the house is quieter and the guards distracted by a delivery at the main gate, I slip into Rostya’s office. My heart thuds in my chest, my hands clammy and unsteady as I sort through drawers and shelves. I am looking for something—anything—that might open a door, that might let me breathe.
Papers rattle. I find account ledgers, coded lists, photographs with names scrawled on the back. In a locked drawer I crack with a stolen key, I find what I didn’t know I was seeking. Documents marked with the Volkov name. Locations. Numbers. Timetables. Prisoner transfers.
Ilya Volkov… where he’s kept, when he’s moved, details of his captivity written in Rostya’s clipped, merciless hand.
A cold sweat breaks out across my neck. This is a weapon. I could trade this to Denis, buy my way out, maybe even strike back at Rostya. I could be free. The idea fizzes through me, electric, bright with the possibility of something new.
As I stand there, the file trembling in my hands, my stomach twists. To trade with Denis is to put myself in his debt. To be caught between two monsters, instead of just one. I see the calculation in Rostya’s eyes, the cruelty in Denis’s. I will not let either of them claim me.
I snap the file shut, shove it back in the drawer, and force myself to breathe. I’ll escape—one way or another. I’ll do it alone. I won’t let another man decide the shape of my life, or the future of the child I carry. My freedom will be mine, or not at all.
***
The house softens with evening, shadows growing long across the marble floors. Rain begins to tap against the windows, a hush, secretive sound that stirs something wild inside me. For once, the guards’ patrol is staggered, their voices drifting from the far end of the hall, now distracted by a delivery at the back gate. I watch, breath held, as their routine fractures just enough. For a heartbeat, there is a gap. My chance.
Barefoot, I slip from my room, heart pounding so hard I feel it in my fingertips. I move like a ghost… down the stairs, through silent corridors that twist and turn, each cornerholding its breath. My only witness is the rain, the storm’s clean promise leaking through half-open doors and windows. I move by memory, clinging to every detail I’ve mapped over weeks of forced captivity.
The house is a maze, but I know it now—where the floor creaks, where the security cameras are blind, where the servants slip away for a stolen smoke. My breath rasps in my throat. Every shadow feels dangerous, each one pressing close, threatening to swallow me if I falter. I taste desperation, sharp and electric. My world shrinks to the next door, the next turn, the next step.
As I approach the outer gates, the smell of rain grows stronger, heavy with earth and freedom. It’s so close I ache with it, a longing that feels like hunger, like hope. For a single, reckless moment, I let myself believe I will make it, that I will step into the storm and be free, that I will outrun his shadow, his hands, his name.
I round the last corner, breath hitching. The gate is there, black iron gleaming, almost close enough to touch. I take another step.
A shadow moves, stretching across the flagstones, swallowing the faint light. I freeze, the hope in my chest shriveling to dust. I lift my eyes and see him.
Rostya, standing silent and immovable, his figure carved from the darkness itself. His arms are crossed, his eyes burning in the half-light, catching me in his gaze the way a snare catches an animal.
For a moment neither of us speaks. The rain drums louder, urging me to run, to try. But I can’t. His presence roots me to the spot, as solid and inescapable as the house behind us.
The silence stretches, a verdict passed without a word. He takes a step toward me, and I know—I am caught. Every ounce of desperation collapses into cold dread. The cage has snapped shut, tighter than ever. He’s the lock I cannot break.
Rain spatters on the stone as I stare at him, the gate and the world beyond it so close I can taste it, but Rostya blocks the path, his frame cutting off the last sliver of hope. Something in me shatters.
“Let me go!” My voice is raw, torn from somewhere deeper than fear, deeper than pride. “You don’t own me! You’re a monster. You’ve stolen everything! My work, my freedom, my—” I can’t say it, can’t saychild, not with the ache so fresh. Fury roars through me instead. I shove at his chest, my fists small and wild. “I hate you, do you hear me? I hate you!”
