Page 50 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
Karmia stands barefoot in the doorway, framed by marble and shadow. She looks so fragile against the vast estate, yet unyielding in the way she doesn’t move. Her hair is loose, her dress wrinkled, her eyes wide with something I can’t name. For the first time tonight, my steps falter.
We stare across the space that’s devoured everything between us. Her gaze rakes over me—my bruises, the dried blood crusting at my collar, the fatigue etched into every line of my face. I wait for her to look away, to shrink, to retreat. She doesn’t.
Her lips part. The word comes soft, trembling, but steady enough to cut deep. “Sorry.”
It guts me sharper than any blade. Not weakness. Confession. A truth spoken into the silence of this house that’s held us both prisoner.
Before I can respond, she blurts the words that strike harder than gunfire, words no enemy ever dared throw at me. “I wouldn’t have left… because I’m in love with you.”
The air fractures. For a moment I can’t breathe. The empire, the blood, the war—all of it vanishes under the weight of her admission. My chest tightens, raw, exposed. There is no mask here, no armor. Nothing left but the knife-edge of her voice and the truth I can’t deny.
The tension snaps.
I move before I think, two strides swallowing the distance, and then my mouth is on hers. The kiss collides, fierce and brutal, tasting of smoke and iron, desperation spilling over into heat. She gasps against me but doesn’t pull away; her hands clutch at my torn shirt, dragging me closer. My blood still stains me, but she doesn’t care. She drinks me in anyway.
I can’t stop. Won’t stop. I lift her, her body light in my arms, and carry her inside, away from the open eyes of the night. The nearest couch catches us as we fall together, mouths still locked, teeth and tongues clashing. The violence of battle twists into hunger, into need, into something neither of us can cage.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, my back. My hands slide down her thighs, dragging her against me, the thin barrier of fabric doing nothing to dull the burn between us. Every kiss is desperate, bruising, as if we could consume each other and erase the distance that’s haunted us.
***
The quiet wakes me before the light does. Sheets twisted around my legs, the faint impression of her body cooling beside me. For one hollow beat my gut clenches—gone. The absence gnaws like abandonment, sharp and sudden. My hand dragsacross the empty space, searching for her warmth as if it might linger. Nothing.
I rise, dressing quickly, unease prickling down my spine. The house is too still, its marble halls echoing only my footsteps. I follow the faintest sound—a clatter, the scrape of metal on metal—until I reach the kitchen.
She’s there.
Karmia stands barefoot on the tiled floor, hair mussed into wild tangles, one strap of her dress sliding loose on her shoulder. She is bent over a pan, frowning in concentration, wooden spoon gripped awkwardly in her hand. Nothing like the queen I’ve dressed her as: no jewels, no silks, no mask of steel. She startles when she notices me in the doorway, cheeks flushing.
“I was bored,” she mutters, as if explanation is necessary, as if it excuses her intrusion into this forgotten room. “Figured I’d do… something.” Her eyes flick down, embarrassed, reluctant to admit the truth beneath the words, that she wanted to do something for me.
I step inside, the scent surprising me first. Garlic, butter, something savory and warm that feels foreign in this house of cold stone and colder men. I expect nothing but a mess, a gesture sweet but useless. Still, I take the fork she offers, lift a bite to my mouth.
It stops me.
The food is good. Better than good. Seasoned, balanced, unexpectedly perfect. My brows rise despite myself, and the corner of her mouth quirks upward with cautious pride. The moment disarms me in its simplicity. For once there’s no thoughts of blood or revenge. Only food cooked by her hands, warm and delicious.
“You’ve been hiding this?” My tone is flat, but the smirk threatens, tugging at the corner of my lips. “I should put you in the kitchens permanently.”
She huffs, rolling her eyes, though her blush deepens. “Don’t get used to it. It won’t become a habit.” She turns back to the pan, feigning irritation, but I catch the ghost of a smile before she hides it.
I lean in the doorway, watching her fuss over the sizzling pan, and something shifts inside me. The war is over. Denis Volkov is a corpse cooling in a warehouse across the city. My empire is intact, my enemies silenced. Yet this—her in my kitchen, barefoot and blushing, feeding me food she cooked herself—unnerves me more than any battle ever has.
Here lies the true danger. Not bullets, not blades, but the softness of a moment that feels too much like love.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Karmia
Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months. By now I’m showing, a noticeable curve to my stomach even in loose blouses and skirts.
The estate is gilded, polished to perfection, its marble halls gleaming like something out of a fairy tale—but it suffocates me all the same. A golden cage is still a cage.
Each day blurs into the next—meals in silence, guarded walks through manicured gardens, nights that end in restless dreams. I ache for something—anything—that feels like mine. A way to claw back a piece of myself before I forget I ever existed outside these walls.
It’s a slow afternoon when I find myself wandering without aim, my steps carrying me down corridors I rarely use.I drift past Rostya’s office, the heavy door left slightly ajar. Curiosity hooks me. I nudge it open and pause on the threshold.
Ivan sits at the desk, hunched over a laptop. The glow of the screen paints his face, hard and intent. Lines of code flicker past, interspersed with security logs, maps, and scrolling alerts. He doesn’t notice me at first, his fingers moving quick, steady, practiced. I lean against the doorframe, something stirring in me I haven’t felt in months—interest.
“What is that?” I ask.
