Page 47 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
The city waits, silent and watchful. Somewhere out there, Denis marks time, thinking he has slipped the net. He will learn by sunrise that his move was not bold, only final.
I step away from the weak circle of light, silhouette stretching toward the darkness where verdicts are written in blood. The sound of the convoy fades behind me, leaving a hollow quiet that tastes of ash and iron.
There is no triumph in this, only the cold promise of a dawn that will be made honest by violence.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Karmia
The convoy drops me at the front steps like discarded cargo. No words pass between Ivan and me, only the hiss of brakes and the shove of Ivan’s hand at my arm before he turns back to the others. The heavy doors close behind me, sealing me in. Silence eats everything else.
The halls stretch ahead, polished marble glowing faintly under sconces, each step I take echoing too loud, too sharp. I feel watched though there’s no one here. The walls themselves seem to lean closer, waiting for me to confess, to break. My own shadow slips across the columns like a specter.
By the time I reach my room, my lungs ache from holding my breath. The door shuts with a soft click, and it’s worse inside—too much space, too much quiet, my heartbeat ricocheting against it.
I pace the length of the carpet, chest tight, hands gripping the torn fabric of my dress. The hem is smeared with dirt and asphalt, the stink of gunpowder still clinging to me. Even my hair smells of it, sharp and oily, the same reek that clung to the men in the convoy.
I squeeze the dress in my fists, wishing I could tear it off, peel away the evidence of tonight, but it wouldn’t matter. The memory is stitched into me now. Rostya’s eyes were cold, furious, but not hollow.
There had been something else glinting in them, something rawer than rage, and it cut deeper than the gun he leveled at me. Rage I could have endured. Possessiveness, I could have spit back in his face.
That flash of disbelief, of wounded fury, as if I’d betrayed something more than strategy—it has me unraveling.
I stop at the window, staring at the glass turned mirror-black by night. My reflection wavers in it, pale and hollow-eyed, hair tangled, mouth trembling. I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. She doesn’t look like a hacker who thought she could play this game. She looks like prey.
I press my palms to the cold glass and lean forward until my breath fogs the surface. Outside, the grounds are dark, guards pacing shadows I can’t fully see. Their boots strike the stone in slow, heavy rhythm. I can hear them even through the glass, like a heartbeat that isn’t mine, reminding me there’s no escape.
I turn away, but the walls close in again. I pace. Back and forth. My skin crawls with the weight of guilt. Denis had cornered me. He had pressed the phone into my hand with a threat I couldn’t refuse. But Rostya won’t care about coercion. He’ll see betrayal.
He’s not wrong, not really. I carried the knife to his table.
The memory of his face hits again, rage shot through with something that felt personal. That is what unsettles me most. His fury wasn’t just about control. It was about me. And for the first time since this nightmare began, fear takes root in a place I can’t dislodge. Not fear of dying. Fear of what I’ve already broken.
I sit on the edge of the bed, knees drawn tight together, fingers pressed into the coverlet until the seams cut little crescents into my skin. I can’t stay still. Every sound outside—the slam of a car door, a man’s voice carried faint through stone walls—shoots straight through me. My shoulders jolt, my breath hitches. I keep expecting the stutter of gunfire, the echo of glass shattering. I keep seeing Rostya crumpled against asphalt, rival hands stripping away everything he’s built.
The thought won’t let go.
I fold forward, pressing a palm against my stomach. My breath comes shallow, trembling against the weight of my hand. The child I never asked for kicks back in silence, but I feel it all the same.
A living reminder of what I’ve lost. A chain I can’t undo. Yet the horror is sharp, undeniable—there’s a flicker of worry not for me, not for escape, but for him. For Rostya.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head hard, as if I can rattle the weakness out of me. “He’s my captor. My tormentor.” The words scrape raw, like I’m carving them back into bone where they belong. The worry doesn’t dissolve. It clings, stubborn as ivy, winding around ribs, refusing to die.
I have to do what’s best for me and my unborn child… but I don’t even know what that is anymore.
My thoughts break into shards, flashing images I can’t control. The phone tumbling from my hand into the dark—proof of betrayal etched in every arc of its fall. Rostya’s face lit by headlights, eyes burning as he leveled the pistol at me.
Then, just as vivid, his hand lowering, his decision sparing me. Not forgiveness—never that. A pause. A hesitation I don’t deserve.
The fragments twist, warp into something worse. I see him bleeding out in some nameless alley, body slack under neon glare, mouth still caught in that snarl of command. I see him dragged down by Volkov’s men, stripped of everything, the empire gutted. I see myself standing useless, watching, unable to stop any of it.
I squeeze my stomach harder, breath catching on a sob I refuse to let out. He’s the one who took my freedom, crushed my choices, made me his pawn. I should want him gone. I should want the bullet to find him.
The image of his blood pooling into the street makes my throat close, makes my hands shake until I can’t keep them still.
I stand again, pacing the room like a trapped animal. My reflection in the window stares back—eyes too wide, lips parted, hair a wild halo. A stranger, or maybe the truest version of myself: cracked, terrified, caught in something I can’t fight.
“He’s my captor,” I whisper again, fierce, frantic. Beneath the words, fear beats louder. Fear that he won’t come back. Fear that what I’m carrying isn’t just chains—it’s something I can’t yet name.
The door opens without warning, a soft creak that jerks me out of my pacing. I whip around, breath sharp in my throat. It’s only one of the maids—small, quiet, her head bowed as she slips inside. She carries a tray balanced with tea, steam curling in delicate ribbons, and begins straightening the clutter I’d made tossing cushions and blankets across the room.
