Page 52 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
The words linger long after the office has emptied.Not bad.Rough, grudging, but real. I tuck the flicker of a smile into my sleeve before Rostya can see it, but the warmth it sparks refuses to die. Pride blooms in my chest, small and fragile, yet fiercer than anything I’ve felt since this nightmare began. For months I’ve been caged, stripped of use and worth, but today… today I mattered.
That evening, we share dinner. The long table feels different now—less a battlefield, more a bridge. The silence between us no longer suffocates. It breathes.
I steal glances at him, noticing the way his gaze keeps drifting back, not weighted with suspicion this time, but with something else. Something searching, almost hungry. The air between us hums with it, and I can’t bring myself to look away for long.
When I finally excuse myself, retreating toward the bedroom, his footsteps follow. Heavy, certain. My breath falters. His presence fills the doorway before I can even light the lamp, a shadow cut in dominance and curiosity both. The room feels smaller with him in it, the air charged, my pulse a drumbeat in my throat.
I perch on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in my skirts. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His gaze pins me, waiting. Demanding.
I hesitate, heart clawing at my ribs, before the words slip out, trembling but true. “I… felt something today. Something new.” My hand drifts to my stomach, pressing lightly. “The baby. It moved. The first kick.”
The air shifts instantly.
His gaze drops to where my hand rests, and for once the sharpness drains from him entirely. The steel in his posture softens, his breath stutters, and he stands utterly still. There’s a silence stretching between us.
For the first time, I see him unguarded—not the Bratva wolf, not the empire’s ruler, but a man caught in something he cannot command. His eyes linger on my stomach as if he’s seeing more than flesh, as if he’s seeing the fragile spark of a future he never imagined.
The room holds its breath with him.
His hand hovers, uncertain, the faintest tremor in fingers I have only ever seen curled around weapons or clenched in rage. Slowly, almost reverently, he lets me guide him, my palm pressing his broad hand down against the curve of my stomach. The silence stretches, thick with expectation, both of us holding our breath.
Then it happens—small, faint, but undeniable. A kick, like a ripple beneath the surface of still water. His breath catches. I feel it more than hear it, a sharp hitch in his chest. His gaze snaps to mine, and for the first time since I’ve known him, his expression softens in a way that steals my own breath away. The hardness melts, just for a moment, leaving behind something raw, vulnerable, almost human.
I can’t help it, I smile. It blooms without thought, breaking through the fear and the months of suffocating silence. It’s not forced, not a mask. It’s real. And when I see his mouth twitch, then curve in answer, it disarms me more than any threat ever could.
We sit there, suspended in something I don’t have a name for. His hand stays pressed against me, warm and steady, as if he’s afraid to let go. I see a version of him in this moment I neverthought possible—a man stripped of empire, stripped of blood, left only with the truth of himself. No Bratva wolf. Just Rostya.
And it feels unshakable.
The pull between us grows unbearable, thickening with every second of silence. My heart hammers as I lean forward, the instinct as natural as breathing. He meets me halfway. Our lips brush lightly, hesitant, fragile—like neither of us dares to believe this is real. My hands find his chest, resting against the steady drum of his heartbeat, and his lips linger on mine, tasting, testing.
The hesitation doesn’t last.
The kiss deepens, heat sparking to life in an instant. His mouth claims mine, hungry and fierce, and I yield, answering with a desperation I’ve been denying since the day he chained me to his world. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, and his free hand rises to cradle my jaw, firm but tender. The weight of months of silence, fury, fear, it all crashes into this moment, sealing itself in fire.
We break for breath only to fall back together, lips colliding again, hungrier, needier, as if both of us know we can’t let the moment slip away. His kiss is rough, yes, but threaded with something gentler underneath, something that terrifies me more than his violence ever has.
When we finally part, our foreheads rest together, his breath warm against my skin. The echo of the baby’s kick still lingers between us, unspoken but heavy, binding us tighter than any vow. His hand has never left my stomach, thumb brushing in an absent circle that feels almost protective.
I realize the truth that chills me to the bone.
The cage has changed shape.
Once it was iron bars, sharp edges, fear locking me in. Now it feels like velvet, soft but no less confining, a trap of warmth and touch and the unthinkable possibility of love. I should want to escape more than ever. I should be plotting, clawing for freedom.
What terrifies me most is that I no longer want to break free. I want this. His hand on me, his mouth on mine, his eyes stripped of violence long enough to show me the man buried underneath.
The empire outside our door still waits, bloodstained and brutal. Here, in the quiet of the bedroom, I find myself shackled by something far stronger than chains. The truth presses against me, undeniable and terrifying, if this is captivity, then I no longer know if I want release.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Rostya
The mansion feels smaller tonight. Every corridor narrows as I walk it, pressing in, suffocating. The chandeliers hang lower, the walls hum with tension. Even the air is thick, heavy, as if the house itself knows what’s coming.
I pace the halls like a predator caged, each turn sharper than the last, each step echoing louder than the one before. My skin crawls with restless energy, but there is nowhere to put it.
Men appear in my path, their reports spilling from their mouths; enemy strikes against our fronts, Volkov’s stragglers clawing for scraps, accounts unsettled, debts needing answers. I silence them with a look, one glance sharp enough to cut steel. The words die on their tongues. None of it matters.
Not tonight.
