Page 1 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

My worn-in boots scuffed against the floor as I hurried to class, clinging a heap of books to my chest. I adjusted the backpack slipping off my shoulder and glanced at my watch.

“Shit!” I mumbled under my breath, eyebrows knitting together.

I was late. Didn’t mean to be. But Micah was sick all night, so I barely got any sleep.

The hallway stretched out ahead—completely empty by this time of the morning. My footsteps echoed off the walls. Loud. Alone. Everyone else was in class. Everyone except me.

I raced up the stairs—two steps at a time, breath catching somewhere between my ribs. My legs burned, my heart hammered in my chest, and my lungs threatened betrayal.

But I made it to class just barely.

I slipped quietly through the lecture hall door just as Professor Martin Alden stood in front of the green board with a chalk in his hand.

He was halfway through scribbling Psychology 101 in block letters, and without turning to look at me, he said, “West, you’re late.”

I paused in my tracks, breath hitched in my throat. My eyes swept across the auditorium; students were already seated, notebooks open, heads turning my way. Some smirked; others just stared at me in silence.

My hand flew to scratch the back of my head. “So were you, Professor,” I said, clearing my throat. “Respectfully, of course.”

He paused, then turned around to face me, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “The conviction in your tone is remarkable. What makes you so sure?” He buried his hand in his pocket.

“Clearly, someone tipped her off,” Damian chipped in, flashing that cocky smirk of his. “My money’s on Stacy.” He shot a quick glance at her.

“That’s poor gambling, pretty boy,” Stacy said, popping her gum as she leaned back in her chair.

I met Professor Alden’s gaze, my head tilting slightly. “For starters, the coffee on your desk is still steaming.” My eyes darted to his table. “Like fresh-out-the-café steaming.” I locked eyes with him again. “And you’re still holding the lid in your hand—meaning you just opened it.”

He blinked.

“Plus,” I added, shifting my books to one arm, “considering that I’m almost fifteen minutes late, you should’ve already written Psychology 101 long before now. But you were still on the ‘Psy…’ when I walked in, so—”

The hall fell silent for a moment, and soon after, murmurs rose from my classmates.

Professor Alden ran a hand along his jaw, the corners of his mouth betraying the smile he tried to hide. “Go. Sit down,” he said, his voice tinged with a subtle hint of amazement.

I did just that, occupying the seat Stacy had reserved for me.

“Show off,” she mumbled under her breath, her brows wiggling at me.

Stacy was a good friend, though our relationship never really went beyond school.

I preferred it that way. There was already so much drama in my life, and I wasn’t ready to let anyone else in.

Maybe not yet, anyway.

As the class progressed, I watched Professor Alden speak with practiced cadence, his voice rising and falling as he demonstrated with his hands. He taught on the subjects of attachment styles, maternal bonds, and developmental trauma, having no idea how relatable his words were.

I found myself drifting in and out of the lecture as memories from my past came flooding back into my mind. It was hard to concentrate when it was as though Professor Alden was talking to me directly.

Staring at the board with glazed eyes, Professor Alden’s voice faded into the background. My heart felt heavy, and my pulse raced as I fought back tears that stung my eyes.

My pen hovered over my notebook as he talked about parental abandonment and the trauma that came with it. His words hit me like a hammer to the head—too familiar to be academic.

It was almost like Professor Alden was telling the whole class about my life—my childhood—and that nearly broke me.

I swallowed hard, blinked a few times, and then forced myself to write down his wise words. My hand trembled slightly as I scribbled, “Why does absence feel heavier than presence?”

By the time class ended, my notebook was a mixture of bullet points and half-formed thoughts.

“Hey, you okay?” Stacy asked, a hint of concern tinged in her tone.

“Yeah. Of course,” I replied swiftly, masking my pain with a plastic grin.

She squinted her eyes, not so convinced by my response. But after a moment, she let it go. “I’m gonna go grab something to eat. You coming?”

“No, uh…I’m good, thanks.”

“Alright,” she answered and walked away.

A few minutes after the whole class had cleared out, I gathered my books like they were my armor and headed out.

The sun kissed my face, forcing my eyes to squint at its brightness.

I hadn’t taken five steps in front of me when a familiar voice rang out from behind, stretching my name like a chorus.

“Leooooona!”

It was sung, bright and dramatic—half greeting, half performance.

My lips curled into a bright smile, and I turned around, grinning at the gorgeous lady with a camera slung around her neck.

Her golden blonde hair caught the sunlight, casually tied in a messy bun with stray strands framing her face.

She smiled at me, her expressive hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.

Her soft curves and petite frame were shrouded beneath her signature oversized shirt and baggy jeans, finished off with a pair of scuffed boots.

Meet Wren Maddox, my empathic yet reckless best friend with a heart wrapped in steel. She was brave, bold—one of the most headstrong and most curious human beings I’d ever known.

Well, I guess to be a great photojournalist like her, you’d have to be. Wren was the kind to run toward danger while everyone else ran away from it.

Why?

So she could capture the best photos of the event, risking her life and safety in the process.

Personally, I’d never really understood that level of dedication and hard work. It was admirable.

But also quite stupid if I were being honest.

“Hey, slugger.” She walked up to me.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I asked, adjusting my backpack.

“I think I should be asking you that. You look like shit,” she teased.

“Well, thanks a million,” I replied, sarcasm lacing my tone.

She chuckled. “But seriously, how’re you holding up—and how’s Micah’s fever?”

I groaned, rolling my eyes in exhaustion. “He threw up at 3 a.m., Wren. All over my rug. And my notes. And my soul.” The words came out, one sentence at a time, calm with a hint of frustration.

She clicked her tongue. “Yike. The rug okay?”

I shook my head. “Nahh. The rug’s dead. Funeral’s next week.”

Wren snorted. “What should I bring: flowers or a Swiffer?”

“Both maybe.” I shrugged my shoulders.

And with that, we both burst out laughing, the kind that drew unwanted attention.

“Wren, you’re uptight and semi-functioning, and that’s impressive….” She paused, watching me closely.

I tilted my head to the side, suspicion flickering in my gaze. “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?”

“Because there is one—”

“Oh, here we go again,” I muttered under my breath, knowing exactly where this was heading.

“You need to live a little, Leo—have some fun,” she began, her voice tight with emotion.

Wren wasn’t teasing this time; the playful edge had dropped seconds ago, replaced by a harmless urgency that made me glance over her.

She continued, “For Christ’s sake, you’re just twenty-one and you’re already taking on the role of Mother, Father, and big sister—that’s frustrating!” Her brows knitted together, her lips pressed like she was trying not to say more than she could handle.

She wasn’t judging—Wren never did, not even once. The frustration in her tone wasn’t anger. No. It was something more affectionate. It was care.

“You know I don’t have a choice,” I said, swallowing back the emotions rising within me.

“I do. I do know that,” she stuttered, reaching out to hold my hands. “And I’m not asking you to abandon your responsibilities….” She went silent for a second. “Look, all I’m saying is that you need to stop and smell the roses sometimes. Let yourself exist outside them for once.”

A chuckle fell off my lips. “Lemme guess, this is your subtle way of inviting me somewhere.”

She paused, pulling a classic guilty-as-charged face, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I hate that you know me so well.”

I laughed.

“Anyway, I’m meeting up with some friends at Wild Beans. Wanna come?” She nudged me with her elbow.

I raised a brow. “Wild Beans—the new place with the pretentious mugs and poetry open mic night?”

“Well, if you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” she said, “but yes, that’s the one.”

I paused, considering her offer and how fun it would be to be around folks my age.

“You have to come,” she insisted. “Nate’s already practicing his dramatic reading voice—it’s unbelievable.”

I thought about hanging out with them for a moment. It would be an awesome experience. But that wasn’t a luxury that I could afford right now. I wasn’t like Wren or the others. No. This twenty-one-year-old had three younger siblings to cater for and a drunk Dad to look after.

Fun wasn’t in my dictionary. And the life that my friends lived wasn’t my reality.

I’d made peace with that a long time ago.

“I’m sorry, Wren. I’m gonna have to take a rain check on that. There’s a few loose ends that need tightening at home,” I answered with a heavy heart.

A glimpse of disappointment flashed across her face, and she drew a deep breath. Wren should’ve already gotten used to my excuses by now. But for some reason, she hadn’t.

“Just promise me one thing,” she said, those hazel eyes boring into mine. “That you’ll go easy on yourself.”

I managed to muster a plastic grin. “I’ll try.”

She beamed that radiant smile of hers, embraced me, and then walked away.