Page 18 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
I find myself holding the stare longer than I mean to. Her lips are tight, her breathing uneven, but she doesn’t look away.
For the first time since dragging her into my world, I admit something I hadn’t allowed myself before: she is not fragile. She is not compliant. And she is not the pawn I assumed she’d become.
The thought is both irritating and… dangerous.
Her chin is lifted, her eyes daring me even as her hands tremble against the silk sheets. I let the moment stretch until it thrums like a live wire between us, then I make my decision.
I step back The weight of my gaze lingers on her, but I don’t touch her, don’t order her further. Instead, I turn and move toward the door, each stride unhurried. She expects violence, expects fury. What she doesn’t expect is what I give her: absence.
I leave her in my room. My choice is calculated, every angle sharpened. She wears my ring, yet she is still a stranger in my domain, a trespasser seated stiffly on my bed. Letting her remain there while I walk away is its own form of control. A reminder that even in solitude, she breathes inside walls that belong to me.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
Inside, she is left with velvet curtains, polished wood, the weight of chandeliers throwing fractured light across silk sheets. Luxury, but luxury that smothers. A prison dressed in wealth. I know she won’t rest. I know she will lie awake, staring at the carvings in the mahogany frame, her body curled tense against sheets that carry my scent.
That unease is as useful as shackles.
For me, the night stretches differently. Alone in my study, I pour vodka but don’t drink it. I let the silence work on me instead, let the memory of her words replay in my head. Thatflick of sarcasm. That fire sparking in her eyes when she should have bowed.
I’d intended to break her quickly. That was the plan; snap her spirit, bend her to obedience, turn her into a tool no different from any other weapon in my arsenal. But in that clash, in her refusal to yield, I saw something else.
A challenge.
Dangerous, yes. A longer war than I wanted, but also… compelling.
It gnaws at me, the way she sat straighter in the face of my dismissal. The way her defiance made her seem taller even as she trembled. Most people cower. She smolders.
I find my lips curling, though there’s no warmth to it. A long game is harder, but it is also sweeter.
The night deepens, shadows lengthening across the estate, wrapping stone and velvet in silence. Somewhere down the hall, she lies awake, restless, clutching herself against a bed too rich and too suffocating to ever feel safe. I imagine her staring at the ceiling, whispering rebellion to the dark, her pulse thrumming with the same stubborn beat I saw in her eyes.
To me, she is already wife by law. Bound, branded, named. That ring on her hand is proof. To her, she is captive, fire still alive in her chest. She believes she can keep it burning.
That is where the truth lies. Not in the papers, not in the signatures, but in the silent war drawn between us.
The marriage may be sealed, but the battle has only begun.
Chapter Nine - Karmia
I wake to stiffness that feels bone-deep, every muscle aching as though I’ve been twisted into some unnatural shape all night. The sheets are smooth, soft, expensive… but they might as well be stone.
My wedding dress clings to me, wrinkled and heavy, the lace biting into my skin where I slept in it. My arms are sore from being curled tight around myself, as though I could shrink small enough to vanish into the mattress.
The absurdity of it gnaws at me. Married, but left alone. A bride in silk and lace, untouched, discarded like a mannequin after a window display. I lift my hand, and the ring catches the morning light. A band of metal, too heavy for its size, gleams against my swollen knuckle. I stare at it in bitter disbelief, thumb brushing the edge as if it might flake away like paint. It doesn’t. It stays cold, real, indelible.
He bound me, but didn’t want me. Not as a wife. Not even as a body beside him. His absence presses harder than his touch ever could. It says more clearly than words: I am a possession, shelved in plain view, to be used when it suits him and ignored when it doesn’t.
My throat tightens, a sting rising fast and sharp. I clamp down hard, pressing the feeling back. I won’t cry. Not for him, not for this. If I let myself sob now, I’ll never stop.
A knock breaks through the silence. It’s soft, hesitant, followed by the creak of the door. A maid steps inside, head bowed, hands clasped neatly in front of her. She doesn’t say much, only gestures for me to follow. Her eyes flicker briefly to mine, but she looks away quickly, as though staring too long is dangerous.
I rise stiffly, the dress dragging heavy across the carpet. My feet carry me down another set of grand hallways, sunlight spilling through tall windows, chandeliers glittering overhead. Everything is opulent, perfect, and none of it belongs to me. I feel like an intruder paraded through a museum where every painting and vase is older, stronger, more valuable than I will ever be.
The dining hall is cavernous. A long table stretches the length of the room, polished so bright I see my reflection swimming in the wood. Platters wait, silver domes pulled back to reveal food I once would have only seen in magazines: fruits glowing like jewels, pastries delicate as lace, meats seared to perfection.
I sit where I’m told. Servants move around me silently, their eyes flicking up, then down, as if I am something strange, an animal dressed in silk, paraded for observation. The rich food turns to ash in my mouth. I chew, I swallow, but every bite sticks in my throat. Hunger should have made me ravenous. Instead, dread curdles everything.
Just when I think I might retreat back to the bedroom, another maid enters. She doesn’t bow or shuffle like the others. She moves briskly, clipboard in hand, her voice clipped and efficient.
