Page 39 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

Renat's face has become a mask of controlled fury, every civilized pretense stripped away to reveal the dangerous man underneath the expensive suits and social manners.

Bennato is bleeding from his nose and mouth, dazed but desperate as if he knows this might be his last chance.

His designer clothes are torn and stained, and his perfectly styled hair is now disheveled and matted with blood.

Just when it looks like Renat might deliver the killing blow that will end this war permanently, Bennato's men converge on their position.

They grab their boss under his arms, hauling him backward toward a service exit I hadn't noticed before.

Smoke fills the air, whether from a grenade or an actual fire, I'm not sure.

The sirens outside grow louder and closer, adding urgency to everyone's movements.

Bennato vanishes through the service door like a ghost, dragged to safety before Renat can chase him down and finish what they started tonight.

The frustration on Renat's face is palpable as he stands in the middle of the destroyed gallery, his chest heaving with exertion, blood coating his knuckles, and his eyes locked on the exit as if he can burn it to ash through sheer force of will.

I stagger to my feet on unsteady legs, ignoring the sharp pain in my ankle and the sharp sting along my side where Bennato's grip will definitely leave bruises.

Every step sends little shocks of pain up my leg, but I move toward Renat anyway.

He needs to know I'm safe, that his sacrifice of the perfect opportunity for revenge wasn't wasted on saving someone who didn't appreciate it.

He turns before I reach him as if some sixth sense tells him I’m approaching. The way he looks at me steals the air from my lungs.

“Elena,” he breathes, and there's a fracture in his voice I haven’t heard before.

The fire that had been consuming him moments ago has shifted into something entirely different.

His eyes sweep over me with desperate intensity, cataloging every visible injury, every sign that I might be hurt worse than I'm letting on.

“I'm okay,” I manage report, though my voice comes out shakier than I want it to. “You stopped him.”

His hand rises to cup my cheek with surprising gentleness, considering the violence I just witnessed him unleash.

For a suspended moment, the world contracts to just this.

The two of us standing in the wreckage. No sirens wailing outside, no Bratva soldiers securing the scene, no blood staining the marble floors.

Just the way his thumb brushes over my cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the fact that I'm still breathing and still here.

But even with his touch warming my skin, I feel the distance growing between us.

The tension of what happened tonight. He didn't get what he came for.

Bennato is still alive, still dangerous, and plotting his next move from wherever his men dragged him.

This war is far from over, and we both know it.

Renat doesn't speak again. Words seem inadequate for everything that just happened, everything that almost happened, and everything that still hangs between us unresolved. Instead, he simply pulls me into his arms and holds me like he's afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip.

I bury my face against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with gunpowder and dust. I close my eyes, not because I trust that this nightmare is over, but because, for right now, being held by him has to be enough.

By the time we reach the estate, I feel like I’ve been scraped hollow and stitched back together with barbed wire.

The adrenaline that carried me through the crisis has long since abandoned me, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that turns every step into a slog through wet cement.

The events of the night cling to me like soot.

Renat’s explosive rage as he fought to protect me, the cold bite of Bennato’s gun pressed into my ribs, and the chaos that exploded inside that elegant gallery was a nightmare dressed in silk and champagne.

Renat hasn’t said a word the entire ride home.

He stares out the tinted window, his jaw locked, his expression blank.

His knuckles are still bloodied. His suit is torn in places that no amount of tailoring will fix.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. His mind is elsewhere.

He’s not shutting me out. I can feel it in the air between us.

He’s holding something back that needs to be leashed before it slips free.

At the entrance, a member of the estate staff greets us.

A middle-aged woman, calm and quiet. She doesn’t flinch at the state we’re in.

I expect her to guide me to a room with tea and soft lights, maybe offer an ice pack for the bruises blooming along my ribs.

But instead, Renat’s hand settles at the small of my back as he leans in.

“Come with me,” he murmurs. “The doctor’s here.”

I don’t argue. I don’t have the energy to. And having someone check me out sounds like a reasonable idea, even if nothing feels broken.

He leads me down a corridor I’ve never noticed before toward a wing of the house I didn’t realize existed. The door we stop at has always been closed. A part of the mansion’s secret anatomy I wasn’t privy to until now.

Inside, the lighting is soft but clinical, filling the space with a sterile glow that whispers contradiction.

A portable examination table anchors the room, surrounded by standing lamps and a tray of carefully arranged medical supplies that gleam under the illumination.

Cabinets line one wall, their glass doors revealing shelves of bandages, gauze, and bottles of medication I can’t name.

The sharp tang of antiseptic hangs in the air. It’s clean and clinical.

A man rises from a leather chair as we enter. He's in his late fifties, dressed in a slate-gray shirt and dark trousers. His demeanor is composed but not cold. A stethoscope drapes around his neck. A leather doctor’s bag rests at his feet like it’s lived there for years.

“Dr. Pavlenko,” Renat says, his voice low. “He’s worked with my family a long time.”

That statement says more than a résumé ever could. Loyalty. Silence. Familiarity with wounds no hospital would ask about. The doctor gives me a polite nod.

“Miss Martinez,” he says, his voice pleasant and calm. “If you’re comfortable, I’ll take a look at your injuries.”

I glance at Renat. He meets my eyes, searching my face. Not for permission but for reassurance. That I’m okay with this. That I still have a choice. I nod. He walks out without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

“A weapon was pressed to your ribs?” Dr. Pavlenko asks as he gently lifts the hem of my shirt.

“Yes.” My voice is thin and distant. “He didn’t pull the trigger.”

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, his fingers skimming the bruises with care. “Heart rate’s elevated. Blood pressure’s low. Tenderness here?” He presses just below my belly button.

I flinch.

He pauses, thoughtful. “When was your last menstrual cycle?”

The question doesn’t land right away. It hovers. Then, it drops like a stone.

“I...I don’t know.” I frown, staring at the ceiling, trying to scroll backward through the wreckage of the past few weeks. “It’s been a while. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“Understandable,” he says gently. “But stress alone doesn’t usually account for this. Would you like me to run a test?”

“No.” Too fast. My voice stumbles ahead of me. I shake my head. “No, I don’t need that. I’m sure it’s just stress. My schedule’s probably off. There’s been so much going on. I haven’t even been sleeping.”

But the words crumble in my mouth. My mind’s racing now. I try to count backward. The gala. The investigation. The explosion. The kidnapping. Renat.

And then it hits me. I missed it.

“I think…” I murmur, my breath catching in my throat. “I think I skipped last month.”

Dr. Pavlenko doesn’t react. He simply pulls a small, sealed packet from his bag and hands it to me.

“There’s a bathroom through that door,” he says, his tone gentle. “Let’s just check.”

I take the test with unsteady hands and walk across the room on spaghetti legs. The bathroom is crisp and elegant, yet it has a clinical feel. Cold tile. White marble. I follow the instructions, then set the test on the counter and perch on the edge of the tub.

Time slows to a cruel crawl. When I finally look down, the answer is clear.

Positive.

I grip the porcelain rim, bracing against the wave swelling inside me. When I return to the room, Dr. Pavlenko sees the truth before I speak.

“You’re pregnant,” he says softly.

My arms fold instinctively across my stomach. My voice is low and firm.

“Please don’t tell him.”

The doctor raises a brow. “You don’t want Renat to know?”

“I’ll tell him,” I say. “Just not yet. Not like this. It’s not something he should hear from someone else.”

After a moment of study, he nods. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you.”

He finishes his notes, packs his bag, and leaves me with a nod. I wait until the door closes before reaching for my phone.

I scroll to Amelia’s name and dial. She picks up on the second ring.

“Are you okay? I’ve been trying?—”

“I’m fine,” I whisper, glancing toward the hallway. “But I need to see you. Tomorrow morning. Your place.”

“I’ll be there. What time?”

“Eight?”

“Done.”

We hang up.

I sit on the edge of the examination table, phone pressed to my chest, panic building silently inside me.

That night, I don’t sleep.

The next morning, Renat is already in the sitting room when I come downstairs. His eyes sweep over me, but he doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask any questions.

“I need to see Amelia,” I say as I slip on my sandals. “She’s worried.”

His eyebrows knit together. “You can go. But Yavin goes with you.”

“Fine,” I say, trying not to bristle. “But he waits in the car.”

He nods once and gestures toward the door where Yavin is already waiting, stoic and silent, arms crossed over his chest.

The drive is quiet. Yavin parks across from Amelia’s building and stays in the car, true to our deal. I make my way up the steps and knock.

Amelia opens the door in a pale blue robe, worry lines carved into her face. She pulls me into a tight hug before I can even say hello.

“I didn’t sleep a damn second,” she mutters, dragging me to the couch. “You sounded… I don’t know. Scared.”

“I am.”

She tucks her legs beneath her, face softening. “What’s going on?”

I take her hand. My voice comes out smaller than I expected.

“I’m pregnant.”

Her jaw drops. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “I took the test last night. Renat had his private doctor check me over. He figured it out before I did.”

She squeezes my hand, eyes shining. “It’s his?”

“There’s no one else.”

The silence stretches between us. “Are you going to tell him?” she asks softly.

The question hits harder than I thought it would. I open my mouth. Then close it.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “What would that change? He already controls everything—my work, my safety, my choices. If he finds out, he’ll see me as leverage. Or weakness.”

“Or someone to protect,” she says.

I shake my head. “And what happens when protecting me becomes controlling me? When protecting this baby means pulling me into his world so deep I can’t breathe?”

She doesn’t answer.

I know the risks better than anyone. I’ve spent months chasing this story, wading through threats, gunfire, and secrets buried in marble mansions and blood-stained alleyways. His world is not one a child should ever enter.

“I’m not telling him,” I say at last. “Not yet.”

Amelia nods, though her face betrays her thoughts. “I get it,” she says. “But secrets like this don’t stay secrets forever.”

She grabs a blanket and tosses it over both our legs, just like we used to when we were kids, pretending we were safe from the world. I release a deep sigh.

“Okay,” she whispers. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”