Page 32 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
I finally dare a glance up. He’s still watching, expression shuttered. I see the question in his eyes, and maybe something more—something softer that terrifies me more than his anger ever could.
I turn away, pretending to search for socks. The silence stretches until it aches. I keep my back to him, jaw clenched, refusing to let the weight of last night crush me or reveal how deeply it’s marked me. The rules have changed, but I won’t let him know just how much.
I gather the last scraps of composure, fingers smoothing my hair, hands quick and distracted as I reach for the door. He says nothing, just watches me cross the room. His silence is colder than any threat. I feel the weight of his gaze pressing between my shoulder blades, heavy as iron. It takes every shred of will not to look back, not to let him see how shaken I am.
I slip out, closing the door softly behind me. The air in the hallway feels different. Emptier, but no easier to breathe. His silence follows, a shadow I can’t shake, clinging to my skin with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his heat. Each step down the corridor lands heavier than the last, the plush carpet doing nothing to soften the ache in my chest.
I tell myself it’s done. A mistake, a one-time surrender, a storm-driven madness I’ll never repeat. I cling to that script, whispering it with every footfall:It was nothing. It was weakness. It’s over.
Except the lie won’t settle. The heat of his touch lingers where nothing should, ghosting along my collarbone, burning across my hips. I catch my reflection as I pass a window—cheeks still flushed, mouth still too full—and I know I’m not the same girl who was dragged into this house weeks ago.
The truth gnaws at me as I move through the endless halls, echoing in the silence that grows around me. I can try to push him away, lock the door behind me, stack reasons to hate him as tall as the ceiling—but none of it is enough.
I am already haunted. The night we shared is carved into me, branded in ways that no apology or outrage will erase. I can deny it a thousand times and still, the memory will tug at me, calling me back to that dark, dangerous place where I stopped fighting and simply felt.
I pause halfway to the stairs, hand braced against the gilded wallpaper for balance. The house is silent, everyone asleep or pretending not to watch. My breath comes shaky and thin, caught somewhere between relief and dread. I shut my eyes, forcing myself to focus.
“I hate you,” I whisper under my breath, lips barely moving. I want the words to be steel, to carry all the fury and fear in my bones. They fall flat, powerless in the hush.
The real betrayal is this: in the quiet of my own heart, hate is no longer the whole truth. The war inside me is nowhere near finished—and as the silence closes in, I finally admit it’s a battle I might already be losing.
Chapter Sixteen - Rostya
I find it by accident, tucked behind a loose panel in the guest bathroom—too careless to be truly hidden, too desperate to be ignored. For a moment, I don’t process what it is. Just a slip of white plastic, the sort of thing anyone might overlook in a house this size.
Then I see the faint digital lines, the simple confirmation staring back at me in blue.
Pregnant.
My mind waits for the thunder, the instinctive surge of rage or betrayal or even pride. But nothing comes. Instead, my chest goes strangely still. The air in the room feels thinner. I sit down on the closed lid of the toilet, holding the test in my hand, turning it over and over with a strange, gentle care, as if it might shatter the world if I drop it.
I place it on the counter, precise and controlled, and stare at it for a long time, watching as the confirmation doesn’t fade. Then I slip from the bathroom, moving through the estate with a calm that feels borrowed from someone else’s body.
I don’t confront her. Not yet. Instead, I watch her at breakfast, head bent over her coffee, eyes shadowed and distant, her hands steady on the mug but her gaze sliding away from mine.
She speaks quietly with Miron in the hallway, a quick exchange I can’t overhear. There’s nothing in her voice to betray the truth, but my ear is tuned to the smallest tremor, every note now loaded with meaning.
She paces the corridors as she always does, hands trailing along the walls, pausing before the library window to watch rain bead on the glass. She doesn’t see me in the reflection. She neverdoes. I wonder how many secrets she’s kept, how much of her has always been hidden in plain sight.
My expression is as cold and blank as ever. My mind runs sharp and fast—cataloging every moment, every possibility, every threat and every promise that the test conjures. I have weathered betrayals, endured ambushes, survived nights soaked in blood and violence.
This is different. This is not a bullet or a lie or a rival’s poison. This is a shift in the bedrock of everything I thought I could control.
My body hums with a strange unease, not anger. It’s as if the world has tilted, and I’m suddenly aware of how fragile everything is. How easily the things you never expect can upend the rules you’ve written in blood. I follow her movements, searching for a sign: fear, relief, hope.
She is as armored as I am, and so the secret holds.
Even now, with the truth resting in a drawer and not in her voice, I know nothing will ever be the same again. The foundation beneath us is cracked, and the ground is shifting with every silent step.
I surprise myself. Instead of breaking something, instead of demanding explanations or unleashing the cold violence that solves every other problem in my world, I feel a strange, icy composure settle over me. It’s as if my own fury knows better than to interfere right now, as if the only thing more dangerous than rage is the quiet that follows it.
I find Ivan in the corridor and speak low, careful, so the words don’t travel. “Change her meals,” I say. “No shellfish, no cured meats. Add fresh fruit, that Georgian khachapuri she likes, the almond pastries.” I rattle off the list without looking up,pretending not to notice Ivan’s raised brow. He nods, slips away to the kitchen with no questions.
I return to my office, but my mind stays on her. When the tray is finally delivered, I appear in the doorway just to watch.
She’s at the table, shoulders tense, reading something on her phone. She looks up, startled by the spread of food—soft cheese, ripe melon, pastries, the kind of breakfast that suggests care she knows I don’t give easily.
Her surprise flickers across her face, quick and almost hidden, but I catch it. She glances from the tray to me, suspicion flaring. “What’s this?” she asks, voice guarded.
