Page 96 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva

Zoella looked up at me, and I swore I nearly fell to my knees like that man in the movie. Her eyes were glassy with tears, her lips trembling like she couldn’t believe it either.

And that look undid a twisted knot inside me.

Uncertain, I stepped closer, my boots heavy on the rugged floor. I’d faced death a dozen times and never once felt this…afraid. Afraid to touch something so small and pure.

But Zoella nodded, encouraging me with a smile while one of the midwives guided the bundle into my arms.

This girl—my beautiful girl—weighed nothing. And yet, she weighed everything.

A soft sigh came from her lips, and it wrecked me. My heart tightened. Something alien, sharp, and painful rose in my throat.

Tears.

But I didn’t let them fall.

I held her closer, like the world might try to take her from me if I didn’t.

In this precious moment, the Bratva didn’t exist. The countless body bags and blood on my hands, Rurik’s betrayal, Yulia’s death—everything disappeared. All that remained was my wife and this heartbeat against my chest, curling her tiny finger, not larger than a matchstick, around my thumb.

I couldn’t stop staring.

She was impossibly small, and she held on like she knew me before now, like she trusted me and I deserved that trust.

Zoella’s voice broke through the fog. “Let’s call her Anya,” she said gently. “I did a lot of research on Russian baby names, and I think Anya stuck with me. What do you think?”

I didn’t answer.

The name was lovely and delicate. At first glance, it seemed like it suited her, but it wasn’t the best.

“No…” I murmured, still watching our baby’s face.

I traced the shape of her cheeks with my eyes and stroked the softness of her cheek with the tip of my finger.

“Mira.”

It slipped out before I even knew I’d decided.

Zoella was quiet for a second. “Mira,” she repeated slowly, as if she was testing it out. “Why Mira? I mean, I like it, but you said it like it means something more.”

Yes, it meant something more.

I swallowed hard, but I didn’t look at her. I needed to believe something good could still come from me. Because if this world ever touched her, I’d tear it apart with my bare hands.

“Because it means peace,” I finally said, surprised at the roughness of my voice. “And maybe she can have the kind I never did.”

Zoella didn’t speak again. Her hand found mine and squeezed it gently, but I couldn’t stop looking at our daughter, my Mira.

I should’ve handed her back. Maybe walked out and reminded myself who I was. But I stayed with my little one and allowed myself to feel all the love she offered, even with her bubbly coos and faint smiles.

This kind of love was not the kind in fairytales or fake promises; it crept in without warning, the kind that gutted you from the inside, and in my world, where mercy got you killed, where weakness meant war, that kind of love wasn’t a gift. It was a fucking curse.

But this was one curse I was willing to endure.

***

The house had been loud for hours, buzzing with life and mild celebration.

Some of the workers moved in and out like bees, carrying trays heavy with roast duck, sweet rice cakes, and bottles of aged cognac from the cellar I didn’t even know we still had.