Page 22 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
Lightning courses through me, demanding I take what is mine.
Control is sweeter than indulgence, and her rebellion is still alive, still spitting sparks. I want to watch it blaze longer, to savor the heat before I decide how to wield it.
So I smirk again, slow, deliberate, every inch of me radiating the predator I am. “Careful, little flame,” I murmur, voice low enough to scrape against her skin. “The more you fight, the more you bind yourself to me.”
Her jaw tightens. She leans closer, eyes glittering. For one dangerous moment, the duel feels less like war and more like hunger, sharp and undeniable, suspended in the air between us.
Then without a word she shoves her chair back and storms from the office without a word.
I lean back in my chair, folding my hands as though the exchange has left me unmoved. It’s a practiced posture, indifference as armor. Inside, everything is shifting. The tight coil in my gut isn’t just anger anymore; it’s hunger, sharp and insistent, curling deeper with every breath she takes.
What began as a scheme to humiliate her, to shield myself from the suffocating expectations of the council, has twisted into something else entirely. I don’t just want her compliance. That would be simple, clean. I’ve taken compliance a thousand times before and left it behind like ash.
No. What I want now is her, wholly. Body. Spirit.
Her fire excites me in ways I can’t ignore. Her defiance feeds a darker craving I haven’t let myself name until now. It isn’t enough to break her; breaking would destroy the very thing that draws me. I want to claim her, but not as an object, not as a tool.
I want her laughter twisted from sarcasm into something softer, meant only for me. I want her gaze to burn for me, not against me. I want to hear her whispers not as weapons but as offerings.
She doesn’t see it. Across the desk, she still glares at me, chin tilted high, eyes sparking with the same reckless fire. She thinks she’s victorious for holding her ground, for meeting my stare without trembling. She doesn’t understand how much power she already holds in the very act of resisting me. Each refusal, each insult, each sharp word she spits only draws me closer, threads the hook deeper.
Night settles outside the windows, deep blue pressing against the glass. I watch her stand, stiff and slow, gathering the papers Miron left behind. She doesn’t glance at me as she leaves, but her scent lingers—a faint mix of tension, defiance, and something sweeter. Her footsteps fade down the hall.
I sit in the darkening office, the glow of the monitors casting fractured light across the desk. My hand drifts to the glass of vodka sitting untouched beside me, but I don’t drink. Instead, I let the promise settle inside me, heavy as steel.
I will shatter every defense she hides behind. Piece by piece, until there is nothing left between us but the fire I have lit in her. Not by force of law, not by the leash of her ring, but by something far stronger.
Desire.
The game has only just begun, and I have all the time in the world to win.
Chapter Eleven - Karmia
The command comes without ceremony, dropped into the room like a blade striking stone.
“You’ll come with me tonight.”
For a second, I think I’ve misheard. I straighten in my chair, my mouth parting. “What?”
Rostya doesn’t repeat himself. He never does. His gaze fixes on me, unflinching, already moving past the fact of it as if my consent was never required. “The Volkovs won’t be handled from behind a screen. If you’re so desperate to imagine escape, you’ll see firsthand what waits outside these walls.”
My pulse slams against my throat. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t—”
“I can.” His voice is sharp as broken glass, cutting straight through my protest. He leans forward slightly, enough that the weight of his authority presses down like iron. “You wear my ring. You walk where I walk.”
The words cinch around me like a chain, dragging breath from my lungs. I shake my head violently, trying to push against the wall of him. “I’m not—this isn’t… you can’t drag me into a battlefield like some—”
But Ivan is already by the door, silent as stone. Miron waits beside him, his expression unreadable, but his stillness says it all: no protest of mine will change this. They won’t stop him. No one will.
His authority is a wall I can’t scale, and he knows it.
The next thing I know, I’m herded down the grand steps of the estate, the night air cold against my skin, my stomach twisting into knots. The convoy waits at the base of the stairs: sleek black cars lined like sentinels, engineshumming low, tinted windows glinting in the floodlights. Men move around them with brutal efficiency, sliding magazines into rifles, checking chambers with the calm precision of ritual. Their silence makes it worse, every motion a reminder of what this world is—cold, calculated, merciless.
A hand at my elbow pushes me forward, and before I can resist, I’m seated inside one of the cars. Leather seats, tinted glass, the faint smell of smoke and steel. Rostya slides in beside me, his presence swallowing the space whole.
The car pulls away, smooth and unhurried, the estate falling behind us as city lights bleed into night. My hands curl into fists against my lap, nails biting deep crescents into my palms.
I watch the men in the front through the reflection in the glass. Ivan’s broad shoulders, unmoving, his focus on the road. Miron’s sharp profile, calm, unreadable, the faint glow of his phone screen lighting his face. Both of them at ease, as though this is just another night, just another mission.
