Page 40 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
This craving for her, this hunger that only grows the more I try to crush it—it’s a poison I can’t spit out.
It doesn’t fade. It’s worse now, heavier, coiling around my ribs and squeezing tight. The more she resists, the more I want her. The more she falls silent, the more desperate I am to make her burn again. I want her defiance, her surrender, her hate, her need. All of it. All for me.
It frightens me. I would never say the word. I would never let it cross my lips.Love.
No. I don’t believe in it. I have no patience for that softness, that rot. Love is what weakens men. What ruins kings. What stains bloodlines and brings empires to their knees. I tell myself I am stronger than that, I have to be. Weakness is death, and there is nothing in me that forgives that kind of flaw.
Yet when I turn my head, when I see her there, limbs tangled in the sheets, mouth slightly open in sleep—something twists in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar. It’s more than hunger. More than lust. It’s the need to keep her, to have her beside me, to see her eyes when she wakes. It’s the terror of losing her, of her slipping away into some darkness I can’t control.
I try to bury the feeling, to grind it down with logic, with ruthlessness. I promise myself—again and again—it’s only possession. Only control. Only the empire, the bloodline, the legacy. I am a man of iron. I do not bow to longing, to fear, to hope.
The storm won’t leave. It circles, constant and relentless. She is here, within reach, but I am restless, half mad with the wanting. I know it’s more than power, more than the pride of keeping her chained. I know I am already caught in something I cannot name, something dangerous, something that could undo everything I’ve built.
I lie awake, listening to her breathe, and for the first time in my life, I am truly afraid—not of enemies, not of death, but of the power this one woman has over me, and of what I will become if I let it show.
Chapter Twenty-One - Karmia
The hall is a world unto itself—red velvet drapes, gold filigree, chandeliers burning like little suns over oceans of polished marble. Every surface gleams, every corner is watched. The guests are wolves in silk and tailored suits, Bratva allies and rivals circling in careful pairs. Their laughter is sharp, their eyes sharper, every toast more about territory than celebration.
I keep my head down, my posture perfect in the gown Rostya chose for me—something expensive and pale, fitted just enough to mark me as his. I have become good at the mask: the soft smile at the right moment, the polite nod, the laugh that never touches my eyes. Inside, I’m counting doors, watching shadows, feeling the heavy air prickle against the bare skin at the back of my neck. Every glance lingers too long.
Every whispered greeting is a test.
I cling to the edge of the party, letting the power move around me. I am background, an ornament, safer that way—until the crowd parts and I see him.
Denis Volkov cuts a smooth path through the sea of sharks. He’s all charm tonight: black suit, crisp lines, an easy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
He catches my gaze, inclines his head with the courtesy of an old friend rather than a rival’s brother. The hair at the nape of my neck rises anyway. He slides close, voice pitched low, the words for me alone.
“You look beautiful tonight, Karmia. Unhappy, but beautiful.”
I force my face into something blank. The urge to run is immediate, but I hold my ground. “Your concern is touching,” Isay, tone brittle, “but unnecessary.” My heart beats faster. I hate that he can probably sense it.
He smiles, as if my discomfort amuses him. “Have you thought about what we discussed? About freedom?” His words are soft, edged with the same darkness I recognize in Rostya—a danger dressed in silk and gold.
I keep my mask in place, eyes steady even as my pulse stutters. “I haven’t decided,” I answer, each word shaped with care. “I have a lot to lose if I make the wrong choice.”
His gaze flickers, reading me for weakness. “You have even more to lose if you do nothing. Time runs out for everyone, even queens in gilded cages.” The warning is gentle, almost affectionate. I wonder if it’s genuine or just another tactic.
The crowd shifts. I step away, smile fixed. “Excuse me, Denis.” I move toward a cluster of women, letting their conversation wash over me, a shield of meaningless words and brittle laughter.
Still, his presence lingers. My skin burns where he stood too close, his offer a dangerous echo in my head. I am trapped, prey in a room full of predators, and the most dangerous one is the man whose name I wear, watching from across the marble sea.
The party blurs at the edges. Laughter swells and recedes, glasses clink, the perfume of power and fear and expensive whiskey fills the air. I let myself drift through it, counting the minutes until I can disappear back into the quieter, lonelier corners of Rostya’s estate.
Denis is always there, orbiting just out of sight, every glance calibrated, every move calculated. I know I’m being watched—not just by Rostya, but by everyone.
He catches me again near the bar, his presence a ripple in the surface of the crowd. His voice is casual, but the words barely matter. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat of his attention as he leans in, as if to murmur a joke for my ears alone. Then, so quick, so ordinary, it happens—his hand brushes mine, and a folded napkin is pressed into my palm.
I almost drop it. The shape isn’t quite right, too stiff, too weighty for linen. My fingers curl instinctively, hiding it as best I can. I force a laugh at whatever bland pleasantry he’s just spoken. My heart hammers so hard I wonder if he can hear it, if everyone can.
For a moment, time freezes. The noise around us goes muffled. The little object in my hand is heavier than any threat Denis could have whispered in my ear. I squeeze it tight, desperate not to show the panic on my face. Freedom sits there, sharp-edged and possible, as terrifying as any cage.
He steps back, his eyes lingering on me a moment longer than is proper. His tone shifts, softer but threaded with something that makes me cold.
“You know how to use it. One call, and it’s done. No more games, Karmia. You deserve better than this.” His smile is gentle, but his gaze is a coil of snakes. “Or maybe you deserve exactly this. Only you know.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t answer. If I show even a flicker of intent, someone will see—Rostya, or one of the elders, or the Bratva wives with their sharp eyes and sharper tongues. I just nod, numb, letting my features arrange themselves into bland gratitude.
