Page 51 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
His head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I ignore the warning and step closer. “You’re tracking something. Signals, alerts?”
His jaw tightens. “It’s Bratva business. Not for you.”
I edge nearer, eyes fixed on the screen. The hunger inside me sharpens. This I understand, this world of code and systems, though it’s been months since I last touched it.
“Show me,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Ivan snorts, shaking his head. “You think Rostya would allow it? If he knew I let you—”
“He doesn’t have to know,” I cut in, heart thudding. “Please. I just… I need to do something. Anything.”
For a long moment he stares, lips pressed in a grim line. Then I see it. The shift, the resignation. My persistence wears him down like water over stone. With a muttered curse, he swivels the screen toward me. “Fine. Basics only. Nothing that matters.”
He explains, clipped and sharp, how they monitor minor alerts, scan for suspicious activity, reroute signals across decoys. I listen, clinging to every word. My fingers itch to touch thekeyboard. When he finally lets me, the rush is immediate, electric.
The interface is crude compared to what I once knew, but the logic is the same. Within minutes I’m tracing small alerts, following threads of activity through digital corridors.
Ivan leans back, arms crossed, watching me. “Hmph.” A whistle slips past his teeth. “Didn’t expect that.”
I glance at him, a spark I thought was dead flickering alive inside me. My hands move with purpose again, quick and precise. For the first time in months, I feel something sharp burn in my chest.
***
The news spreads through the estate faster than smoke. By nightfall, the quiet walls are buzzing with whispers, and I know before I even hear the heavy thud of boots that it’s only a matter of time.
Rostya storms into the office, the air shifting as though thunder itself has walked in. His eyes blaze, sharp and lethal, pinning me where I stand. The door slams behind him, the sound reverberating through my chest. Ivan stiffens in his chair, already bracing for impact.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rostya’s voice is low, rough, dangerous. He steps closer, each stride deliberate, controlled violence wrapped in human form. “You think you can just insert yourself into my world? Intothis?” His hand cuts toward the screen, toward the Bratva’s systems that still glow under my fingertips.
My stomach knots, but I refuse to shrink. I lift my chin, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I wasn’t trying to take anything from you. I just… I can’t keep sitting idle. I wanted tohelp.” My words wobble, but I don’t stop. “I can do more than wait in your halls like a ghost.”
His presence looms over me, fury rolling off him in waves. Any sane part of me screams to step back, to cower, to retreat. I don’t. I stand rooted, refusing to let him see fear.
Something flickers in his eyes—curiosity, maybe disbelief. Then, without a word, he strides to the desk and seizes control of the system. Fingers flying, he pulls up a live breach attempt, the red flashing alert painting the room in warning.
“You want to help?” His voice is all steel. “Then stop this.”
Ivan’s eyes go wide, darting between us. “Boss, that’s—”
“Quiet,” Rostya snaps.
The screen pulses with hostile code, rival hands clawing at the edges of their defenses. It’s too much, too fast, meant for someone with experience to crush. A trap. My heart slams against my ribs, but I force myself to breathe, to focus.
I slide into the chair, palms damp, and begin to work. Fingers dance across the keys, tracing the breach back to its origin point, isolating the fragments one by one. The rival’s attack digs hard, but I dig deeper. Redirect, block, seal. My lungs burn with the effort, every second stretching taut.
Then the red fades. The system stabilizes. The breach dies.
Silence floods the room, deafening after the storm of keystrokes. I sag back in the chair, chest heaving, staring at the darkened monitor.
Ivan lets out a slow whistle, shaking his head in disbelief.
Rostya says nothing at first. His gaze rakes over me, unreadable, a weight heavier than any threat. For a moment I think he’ll dismiss me, reduce my effort to nothing.
Then, rough and grudging, the words come. “Not bad.”
It isn’t much, but from him, it feels like the world shifting.
