Page 9 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
Terror coils in me each time I remember that gaze, but beneath it, something else lingers. A pull I don’t want, a current dragging me closer even as I resist. I tell myself it’s only fear. That’s all it can be. Fear, plain and simple.
I curl tighter in the corner, whispering into my knees. “I’ll never see him again.” The words scrape out hoarse, weak, but I cling to them as truth. He’s a shadow. I’m a mistake. Whatever comes next, it won’t be him.
The thought fractures when the iron door creaks.
The sound is jagged, splitting the silence wide open. My heart slams hard against my ribs, so loud it drowns everything else. Boots strike concrete, measured, heavy.
I shrink into myself, pressing back against the damp wall until mold flakes against my skin. My knees draw tighter to my chest, body folding small, as though size could make me invisible. Every breath cuts shallow.
They’re here. Whoever they are, whatever they’ve decided. The door groans wider, and cold air rushes in around me, carrying the echo of authority in its wake.
I prepare for the worst, because there’s nothing else left to do.
The cell’s damp air shifts before he even appears. It’s subtle at first—a change in pressure, the faintest stir of movement—but then comes the sound.Click.Click. Leather soles on stone, measured and unhurried. No barked orders, no chatter from guards. Just him.
Cold follows him in, colder than the walls, colder than the mold creeping along the seams of the floor. The scent hits next, sharp and clean, expensive cologne cutting through mildew and rust. It’s jarring—out of place here, like silk thrown over a corpse.
I don’t need to look up to know it’s him. My body recognizes his presence before my mind does. My pulse stutters, thuds, then races. He fills the cell without speaking, shadow stretched long across the floor until it touches me where I’m curled.
I press my back harder into the corner, forcing my spine straight. My arms are still wrapped around my knees, but I make myself lift my head. If I cower now, I’ll shatter.
His voice slides into the silence, low and flat, almost bored. “Ready to change your mind?”
It’s not a question. It’s an invitation with teeth.
The hair along my arms rises, gooseflesh prickling under the hoodie. My mouth is dry, tongue heavy, but I drag words out anyway, wrap them in a brittle kind of bravado.
“This isn’t exactly five stars,” I say, my voice thin but trying for a quip. “You might want to work on your hospitality.”
The sound that comes out of me feels alien. Raspy, strained. A stranger’s voice wearing mine.
He doesn’t laugh. His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, something in his face darkens, shadow sliding over bone. The cell feels smaller now, the air heavier, like I’ve said the wrong thing without knowing why.
He moves closer, slow and deliberate. No rush. Each step a warning.
My heartbeat lurches, panic curling low in my stomach. I realize I’ve pushed too far—my sarcasm a paper shield already catching fire, but it’s too late to pull it back, too late to unsay the words.
He’s standing over me now, the scent of him—cologne, smoke, something metallic—coiling into my lungs. The blue-gray of his eyes catches the low light, glacial and unreadable.
I go still. Everything in me screaming to run, but my body can only shrink tighter, pressing against the wall as if it might let me disappear.
His hand moves faster than thought. One second he’s looming, the next his palm is clamped around my throat, iron-tight. My back slams into the wall, stone biting through fabric, shockingly cold. My skull knocks once against it, hard enough to spark stars across my vision, white bursts that explode and fade into black.
Air jerks out of me, ragged. His grip doesn’t just hold, it crushes. The pressure clamps my windpipe, each second narrowing into panic. My hands fly up, clawing at his wrist, nails scraping against skin, but it’s useless. His strength doesn’t waver.
The world narrows to sensation. His thumb pressing against the frantic beat of my pulse, as though he owns it. Thescent of his skin and cologne, expensive spice and clean smoke, filling my head until I choke on it. My chest heaves, lungs scraping for breath that won’t come.
My legs kick uselessly against the stone, shoes scuffing the floor, the sound muffled under the roar in my ears.
He leans in close, the sharp planes of his face filling my vision. His eyes are knives, honed and merciless, and they cut deeper than his hand. “Who sent you?”
The words rasp low, weighted. Not an interrogation. A verdict. A death sentence coiled on his tongue, waiting to fall if I say the wrong thing, or nothing at all.
Terror spikes through me, bright and blinding. I try to shake my head, but his grip holds me still. My voice scrapes out, raw, shaking so hard it barely makes sense. “N-no one—”
His grip tightens, a warning.
“I swear!” The words burst out, tumbling over each other in a rush. “I’m just… I’m just a freelancer. No one sent me! It was an account, anonymous, untraceable. I never asked questions, I never—”
