Page 39 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
After the failed escape, I watch her change. Not all at once, though. There’s no grand battle, no epic shattering of spirit.
Instead, she goes quiet. Her anger stops boiling over, sharp and hot, and settles into something harder to read. She no longer screams at me in the halls, no longer shoves against my chest with every slight.
Instead, she answers in clipped words or not at all. Her eyes still burn when they meet mine, but the heat is different now. Controlled. Contained. Like embers buried in ash, waiting for something I can’t see.
At first, I welcome the silence. It should be peace, shouldn’t it? The storm after the war. I rule this house. I have her under lock and key, her body sated, her escape foiled, her secrets—what I believe of them—buried. I have everything I wanted.
The silence grows claws. I find myself watching her at dinner, waiting for the next explosion, and when it doesn’t come, my skin itches. When she drifts through the mansion, moving around me instead of through me, I feel her absence like a wound.
Anger I understand. Rage I can parry, punish, even stoke to suit my needs. This is something else—a quiet that feels like waiting, like calculation, like the calm before a storm I can’t predict.
I try to tell myself it’s nothing. The game changes, that’s all. She is still here. She wears my ring. She carries my child. The compound is secure, the men loyal, the world outside as dangerous as ever. The cage is closed, locked tight.
When I’m alone, when I stalk the halls at night and the sound of her footsteps is nowhere to be found, I admit a truth I cannot stand: her silence eats at me. It makes me uneasy in ways her anger never did. I want the fire back. I want the fight. I want her present and blazing, not drifting through my world like a ghost.
I bury the thought. Smother it with everything I’ve learned—possession, not love. Control, not care. I remind myself of blood and oaths and what it means to rule by fear. There are moments, just flashes, when I wonder if I’ve lost more than I’ve won. If her silence is a victory she’s stolen from me, quietly, perfectly, while I was too busy tightening the bars around her.
The idea is poison. I crush it. She is mine. She will always be mine. That is the only truth I let myself keep.
The house is sunk in quiet, every shadow sharp-edged and watchful. I find her by accident: a pale figure perched on the windowsill in one of the upper rooms, bathed in cold silver moonlight. She doesn’t know I’m here. She isn’t reading, isn’t writing, isn’t doing anything but staring out at the black sweep of the gardens, beyond the walls, toward a world that has forgotten her name.
I stand in the doorway, half cloaked by shadow, unable to look away. The stillness of her—so unnatural, so absolute—gnaws at something deep in me. She isn’t plotting, isn’t fighting, isn’t burning. It’s just her and the dark and the silence.
For a moment, I wonder what she sees out there. Does she count the steps it would take to run? Or is she just searching for a piece of herself I’ve stolen and locked away?
Something in my chest pulls tight, bitter and hot. I remember her rage. The wild, bright thing she became when she screamed at me, the way her body arched under my hands, the way she clawed at me like she’d tear me apart if she could.
She was alive then, all fight and heat and refusal. Now the battle has slipped beneath her skin, hidden from me, and I feel the absence like a missing limb.
I linger, silent, teeth grinding. My hands clench at my sides, itching to break the spell, to demand her eyes on me, her voice tearing the quiet. I don’t want to want this. I shouldn’t.
She twists me up even now, her stillness more maddening than her screams. The curve of her neck, the softness of her jaw, the outline of her lips as she breathes—every line of her is a hook, dragging me deeper into the pit I dug for us both.
It isn’t desire. I tell myself that, over and over. It’s control. It’s the child. The bloodline. The empire I’m building, the future I must protect. I need her close, contained, branded. I need her obedience, her silence, her surrender. That’s all it is.
As I watch her, unmoving, unreachable, the lie grows thin. The ache in my chest isn’t about power. It’s about the absence of her fire, the longing for the war between us. I need her not because she is weak, but because she never truly breaks. And the knowledge of it—that she might be slipping from my grasp, even now—makes me want her all the more.
I step back into the darkness, my hunger sharper than ever, my justifications unraveling in the silver light. She sits alone, silent, but it is I who am haunted.
The tension stretches, tight as piano wire, threatening to snap with every breath. I can’t take it anymore. The silence, the distance, the unbearable way she sits just out of reach. Something inside me breaks—quiet, ruthless, absolute.
I cross the room without a word, my steps echoing against the ancient floorboards. She doesn’t flinch as I approach. Her eyes find me in the moonlight, dark and unblinking, unreadable as deep water. I touch her and my hands are hard and hungry,not gentle. I pull her up, crush her to my chest, and she comes without resistance, the thin cotton of her nightdress bunching in my fists.
There are no soft words, no requests. Just need, raw and consuming. My mouth finds hers, rough and insistent, swallowing her silence, devouring it, daring her to fight me. I want her to push back, to claw, to remind me she’s not broken. She doesn’t. She yields with a shudder that makes my own body tremble—fury, grief, need all knotted together.
We tumble to the bed, the sheets cool against our skin, the air crackling with everything unsaid. I take her—urgent, fierce, desperate. Each thrust feels like an answer to a question I can’t voice, a battle I can’t win but refuse to stop fighting. I want to mark her, to own her, to bind her so tightly to me that she could never dream of running. I want her cries, her tears, her defiance and her surrender.
To me, in the moment, it feels like conquering. Like proof. Like the only way to close the widening chasm between us. Even as I claim her, something inside recoils. I know—deep down, beneath the lies I tell myself—that it isn’t only about ownership. It’s about the ache she leaves in me when she pulls away. The storm she conjures just by breathing. The fact that I have never, not once, wanted anyone as much as I want her.
When it’s over, she falls asleep almost instantly, her breathing slow and even, her hair fanned across the pillow. The sight of her should calm me, but it doesn’t. I lie beside her, awake and restless, staring into the darkness. My hand hovers above her skin, not quite daring to touch, afraid of what it would mean if I did.
She sleeps. I do not. The storm inside me rages on, wilder than before. No amount of taking can quiet it, no actof possession can dull the hunger. I am no closer to peace. If anything, I am farther away.
She is here, in my bed, in my house, in my grasp. Yet still, I fear she is slipping through my fingers.
I wonder if I’m the prisoner, and she—quiet, burning, unbroken—is the one holding the key.
The night thickens around me, the world reduced to her soft breathing, the hush of rain beyond the glass, and the war I can’t seem to win against myself. I stare at the ceiling, every muscle tense, trying to outlast the storm in my head. I’ve survived ambushes, assassins, traitors in my bed.
