Page 8 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
I light another cigarette, inhale smoke deep until it scalds my lungs. “No,” I murmur, more to myself than him.
I don’t know yet if it’s a threat or an opportunity, but I do know one thing: her silence isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. When I break it, whatever’s behind it will spill out.
That thought should calm me. It doesn’t. It feels like a fuse, burning slow, inching toward an explosion I can’t yet see.
Smoke coils between us, drifting toward the cracked ceiling. My fist still tingles from the wall, nerves alive with fury that hasn’t settled. Miron hasn’t moved from his corner, arms crossed, eyes glinting with that detached sharpness he wears like armor.
“She didn’t break,” he says at last, voice smooth. “Not even a word. She must be pretty tough.”
“She will,” I snap, flicking ash to the floor. “Everyone breaks.”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m one of his puzzles. “Or maybe she’s not afraid of you the way others are.”
My jaw locks. “Then I’ll teach her.”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. “No. You’ll want to teach her. There’s a difference.”
The words settle, heavier than I like. I turn away, drag smoke into my lungs until it scorches. “She’s a child playing with matches.”
Miron pushes off the wall, steps close enough for his voice to drop into a whisper only I hear. “Careful, Brother. Some matches burn hotter than you expect.”
I exhale slow, eyes narrowing on the door where she vanished. “Then let’s see how long she lasts before the fire consumes her.”
Chapter Five - Karmia
Cold eats through me. It’s in the stone under my body, in the damp air clawing at my skin. My breath ghosts white in the dimness, curling before vanishing. I pull my knees tighter to my chest, arms wrapped around them so hard my muscles ache. It doesn’t help. The chill is inside now, seeping into bone.
The room smells of wet stone and metal. Rust flakes from the bars of the door, small orange scars that catch under my nails when I touch them. Mold creeps along the walls in dark blooms, bruises spreading where no light reaches.
Every sound echoes—my shallow breaths, the occasional drip of water somewhere unseen. It’s like being buried alive in a cellar meant for ghosts.
Hours drag. Or days. I try to keep track—counting heartbeats, breaths, anything to measure time—but the numbers slip away, shredded by exhaustion. My sense of the outside world has crumbled. I’m a clock without hands.
Regret runs loops through my head, a gnawing animal that won’t let go. Every click of the keyboard last night replays in sharp fragments. The firewalls. The payout. The thrill. I’d felt untouchable, clever. How did I not see the trap coiled underneath?
My brain spirals, trying to force a shape onto chaos. Random gang? No, too precise. Government? Maybe, but they don’t usually storm apartments like that. Mafia? The word flickers through my mind like a neon warning light. Bratva. Russian. The voice in the SUV, curling hard around consonants I couldn’t understand but felt like a verdict.
I bury my face against my knees, but the images still creep in. The SUV’s interior swallowing me whole. The silhouettes of the men who dragged me out.
Behind them, in the doorway at the estate—those cold eyes fixed on me, steady as a scope. He didn’t even have to speak. His presence filled the space. I’d felt it at the edge of my skin: control, threat, inevitability.
I whisper just to hear something human. “What did I get myself into?” The sound is thin, swallowed by the stone. My voice trembles, cracking at the edges. I whisper it again, softer this time, like maybe if I repeat it enough the answer will appear.
Only the mold and the rust listen. Only the cold. The thought of him—of whoever he is—keeps intruding, no matter how hard I shove it out. His eyes. That doorway. The weight of a presence I can’t name.
I clutch my knees tighter, shivering until my teeth click. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know what comes next. All I know is the trap has closed, and I’m inside it.
Hunger twists inside me, sharp and mean, like something clawing through my stomach lining. It comes in waves, clenching until I fold forward, then easing into a dull ache that never leaves. Thirst is worse.
My lips are cracked raw, tongue heavy, every swallow rasping against my throat. When I lick my lips, I taste rust, mold, and the faint sting of iron.
My hoodie clings damp and useless to my body, its cotton no barrier against the cold that breathes from the stone. My fingers have gone stiff from the zip ties, numb at the tips, and when I curl them into fists they barely obey. I hold them close to my chest anyway, as though protecting what little warmth I have left.
The silence presses in until it feels alive. Some moments I sink into numbness, mind floating blank, just drifting. Others,panic rips me awake, every nerve sparking like I’ve been shocked. My ears play tricks on me.
I imagine footsteps approaching, keys jangling faintly, men murmuring in Russian just beyond the door. Sometimes I swear I hear music, soft and far, only to realize it’s my own pulse hammering in my ears. The silence has teeth. It gnaws at what’s left of me.
Worse than hunger, worse than thirst or cold, are the eyes. His eyes. I can’t stop replaying them in the dark—the way they caught me in the SUV, even blurred through the chaos. Icy. Cruel. Unmoving. He hadn’t raised a hand or a voice, but the air shifted when he looked at me. Like a predator stilling the forest without making a sound.
