Page 53 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
Tonight there is only one door at the end of the hall, closed and waiting.
I tell myself this is madness. That I am breaking every rule I built my life on. A man like me doesn’t circle a bedroom like it’s the center of the world. Doesn’t ignore war for a woman. Doesn’t hold his empire at arm’s length because of the sound of her breathing on the other side of the wall.
I don’t care.
Let the accounts bleed, let the remnants howl, let the empire burn itself to ash. Nothing would pull me from this hall, from this night, from her. My men watch from the shadows, uncertain, whispering, but no one dares speak it aloud: Rostya Sharov has left the battlefield for something larger, something more dangerous.
My pacing turns into a rhythm, steady, relentless, like the countdown before an explosion. Every turn of my body, everystrike of my boots on marble, is a second ticked away. The calm before it all breaks apart. Only this time, the explosion waiting for me isn’t war.
It’s life itself.
My breath comes heavy, controlled, the way it does before I pull a trigger, except there’s no enemy here, no target to cut down. Just the memory of her smile when she felt the kick. Just the weight of her hand guiding mine to the place where our child moved beneath her skin.
A memory that has left me more unbalanced than a dozen battlefields ever could.
I stop outside her door, shoulders squared, every nerve raw. My hand hovers, the same hand that ended Denis Volkov, the same hand that has ended countless others. For the first time in years, it trembles.
I have faced bullets, betrayal, blood. None of it ever made me falter. This—this waiting, this knowing—has stripped me down to something bare and human.
The mansion holds its breath with me. The countdown has reached its final second. And when the door opens, the explosion will not be of violence but of something I can’t name, something that terrifies me more than war ever could.
The convoy of cars pulls up the drive at a speed too fast for the gates, headlights slashing the night. Doors slam.
The doctor and two midwives hurry inside, their bags in hand, their movements efficient, calm, practiced. They’ve done this a hundred times, a thousand—but never like this. Not in this house. Not under my roof. Not with me seated at the bedside like a sentinel waiting for battle.
The room shifts the second I sit down, the air tightening. Their eyes dart toward me, skittish, unsettled. They know whoI am, what I am. Bratva king. Executioner. They’ve heard the stories.
Now here I am, not pacing halls or giving orders, but planted beside her, hand gripping hers so tight it’s as if I can anchor her through sheer force of will.
They move around us, laying out cloths, arranging tools, whispering to each other in the clipped shorthand of those used to crisis. None of it touches me. My whole world has narrowed to Karmia’s face, her sweat-slick brow, the tremor of her lips as she fights her own body.
I refuse to wait outside. No one dares suggest it.
When her nails dig into me—sharp, desperate—I don’t flinch. I’ve withstood knives sliding between ribs, bullets tearing through muscle, fire crawling over skin. Pain is nothing.
This agony isn’t mine. It’s hers. Watching her body tear itself apart to bring life into the world makes me feel powerless in a way no battlefield ever has.
Time breaks. Minutes stretch into hours, hours into an eternity I can’t measure. Her cries rip through the air, shredding me open with every sound. The sweat that beads on her brow, the way her chest heaves, the way her grip tightens until my hand throbs; each one is an enemy I can’t strike down, can’t erase.
My chest rises with hers, falls with hers. Each contraction ties my lungs to hers, binding me in pain I can’t feel but can’t escape either. I’ve lived a life of control, but here I am helpless, caught in the storm of her body’s war.
At moments she seems nearly gone, her breath shallow, eyes glazed, voice cracking into broken gasps. Panic grips my throat like a fist. I lean in, snarling at the doctor, my voice stripped raw.
“Do something. Now!”
The command fractures on my tongue, part fury, part plea. It’s not just order, it’s desperation. The sound of it startles even me. I don’t beg, I don’t break. Here, with her slipping away before my eyes, I would tear the world apart for one more breath from her lungs.
The doctor meets my glare, steady but strained. “She’s fighting. Give her space to fight. There’s no blade for this, no bullet to dodge. Only time.”
Time. The one thing I can’t command, can’t buy, can’t bend. I squeeze her hand tighter, bend my head close to hers. My lips hover at her temple, my words a growl meant for her alone.
“Stay with me. You hear me? You don’t leave. Not now. Not ever.”
The mansion beyond this room doesn’t exist. The empire doesn’t exist. Only her. Only the rise and fall of her breath, the battle raging inside her, and the helpless fury tearing me apart because I can’t fight it for her.
I would trade every drop of blood I’ve ever spilled for this pain to be mine instead, but it isn’t. It’s hers. It’s killing me one breath at a time.
The hours blur into one another until I no longer know the shape of time. Her cries, my fury, the endless rhythm of her breath tearing itself raw—it all becomes a haze I can’t escape. Then, at last, it breaks.
