Page 12 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

He wanted an act—that was what he was gonna get.

I realized the best way to cope with my emotions and not break down was to play the part. It was the only way that I could gain a fraction of his trust while setting my plans in motion.

Egor didn’t expect this sudden overnight change, meaning I had the element of surprise. And I intended to use it to my advantage. He was right; his name meant power and influence, and being his wife meant that I was no longer an ordinary girl.

This was a good thing—the silver lining I’d been looking for.

He’d been watching me closely these days, my jailer.

I still hadn’t felt comfortable referring to him as my “husband” even in my thoughts.

It just didn’t feel right. Egor, being the devil that he was, could sense that I was up to something.

He didn’t know what, but judging by the way he watched me sometimes, it was clear that he was studying me.

The man was trying to understand why, all of a sudden, I switched to this woman he could barely recognize. He was trying to figure me out. Good. Let him be on his toes—unsure of what my next move would be.

Regardless of his suspicion and the close eyes he had on me, my plan was still in motion. He had no idea how close I was to escaping this cursed place. Even with his attention on me, I still cooked up my plans right under his nose.

The days blurred by endlessly, and I was still in character—smiling with the maids and friendly with the guards. As a form of peace offering, I asked the chef to bake something a little special for Dmitry and Andrei—the two guards assigned to me.

At first, they were a bit skeptical about my sudden niceness toward them, but over time, they grew accustomed to it. And that’s exactly what I wanted. I realized that a good number of the Tarasovs had grown a liking for me—especially after everyone found out that I was half Russian.

A part of me hated that I was fooling them all. But Egor left me with no choice; this was a necessary evil, something that had to be done. With each passing day, I grew more and more familiar with the mansion, secret passages, and doors that I didn’t know existed.

The place was huge. The hallways were designed to look like a maze. But as time went on, I had a mental picture of the entire house in my head. I spent most of my time in the library, and the reason wasn’t to read books.

No.

A few days ago, I stumbled across the blueprint of the mansion in our bedroom, tucked away in one of the drawers. Without wasting time, I rushed to make a copy of it in the library before returning the original to where I found it.

I’d been secretly studying the blueprint ever since, and that was how I discovered the hidden passages and doors. This place was a fortress, built to serve as both a palace and a prison.

The mansion was crawling with guards and a few hounds that looked scary enough to make a faint-hearted person shit their pants.

However, days of observation revealed a pattern in the guards’ movements.

There was a loophole in their routine shift, a small opening that was enough to serve as a way out.

I just had to be smart in my plans.

At this point, bypassing the guards wouldn’t be much of a problem. The cameras and the hounds, however, were the real threats. Egor had the entire mansion rigged with hidden cameras, strategically placed throughout the house.

I could navigate the visible CCTVs; it was the hidden ones that posed a problem. I had no idea where they were or which parts of the mansion were blind spots—if there were any at all.

Just when I was beating myself up over being stuck in my plans, something unexpected happened.

One afternoon, I was seated in the library, sipping coffee while studying the blueprint spread across the table in front of me. I heard the door creak open, and with quick reflexes, I stashed as many books and papers as I could over the surface in a bid to hide the blueprint.

It was Grigory, one of the few old people who served the Tarasov household. Clad in his signature black tux with a black bowtie, he strolled into the library, limping. Somehow, Grigory reminded me of Alfred Pennyworth from the classic DC comics—Bruce Wayne’s butler.

His small mustache sat elegantly over his mouth, and his curly gray hair was always slicked back.

He used a cane to support his legs. From what I heard, Grigory had an accident many years ago that almost took his life.

He survived with a broken leg, and he never went anywhere without his walking stick.

The cane clicked against the floor as he approached me, his expression blank as always.

Grigory rarely smiled, and personally, I’d never even heard him speak.

He moved like a ghost, silent and very intentional.

Some of the maids in the house avoided him, saying he was too creepy. However, I found him rather intriguing.

He was as unreadable as my jailer, yet something about the mystery surrounding him always pulled me in. I’d caught him watching me from the shadows a few times—felt his gaze lingering a little too long when I roamed the garden or the hallways.

That day, in the library, he halted before my table, pointing at the empty cup I had set in front of me.

“Oh, yeah. I’m done,” I said, clearing my throat, my hand subtly covering the part of the blueprint that was exposed.

He leaned forward, cleared my saucer, and before he left, he whispered, almost to himself, “I know what you’re up to.”

My brows knitted together, my breath hitched in my throat. “Excuse me?” I blinked, playing dumb.

“I can help you,” he added, still not looking at my face.

Faint creases formed on my forehead, suspicion and confusion flickering in my gaze.

“Meet me back here at exactly 11:47,” he said. “Your paces are short, so from my calculations, it should take you about 120 seconds to get here from the master bedroom. That being said, leave your room at 11:46. Not a second longer or a second behind.”

With that, he cleared my saucer and left the library, calm and collected.

I watched him leave, the blood drained from my face as my heart pounded like a drum. What the hell just happened?

Was this some kind of trap?

A million questions overlapped in my mind, my senses all on high alert. This was strange, but I had only two options. I could either decide to meet him back here later, or I could just sit it out and pretend we never had this conversation.

But to what end?

Grigory’s instructions were down to the point—to the exact second. This had to mean something. He’d clearly been watching me, observing me while I observed my surroundings. Creepy.

But from the looks of things, Grigory might just be my one ticket out of here. The man knew the mansion like the back of his hand—he knew the guards and how they operated. And I guess he also was familiar with all the CCTVs—including the hidden ones.

He could help me escape.

However, was it worth the risk? What if Egor put him up to this? What if it was some sort of trap?

That was my fear talking.

The other part of me, though—the reckless and determined part—was willing to take the risk.

Luckily for me, that night, Egor didn’t come home. I guess Grigory knew that beforehand. At exactly 11:46, I left the room as instructed. There were no guards out here, and the hallways were deserted—silent as a graveyard.

By the time I reached the library, I quietly opened the door and snuck inside. I flipped the light switch on, and there he was, standing by the window. My eyes scanned the place to be sure he was alone. He was.

Grigory glanced at his watch. “You’re right on time,” he said. “That means you just might be able to pull this off.”

Might? That didn’t hurt at all.

I pushed my head back, offended by his statement. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He left the window and limped over to the table that dominated the center of the library. “Come. Sit. We have work to do.”

I hesitated, eyes pinned on him. “What’s in it for you?” I asked, my brows knitting together. “Why are you helping me?”

He sat on a chair, then raised his head and met my gaze. “I had a daughter once.”

“Oh. Past tense noticed,” I said softly. “Sorry for your loss.”

Grigory swallowed hard but said nothing for about ten seconds before finally adding, “Let’s just say I wouldn’t sit idly by and watch her suffer if she were alive.”

Redemption. That was what this was about. I could work with it.

I headed toward the table and took a seat.

We spent hours studying the blueprint and learning all there was to learn about the building. On my own, I used to think I was starting to understand the mansion, but things were even clearer now with Grigory’s help.

The secret passage that I found actually led to the basement, where the hounds were caged. Yep. That would’ve been suicide. The passage didn’t lead to freedom as I thought; it led to a destructive end.

Days had passed since my secret meeting with Grigory, and his voice still echoed in my head.

“Camera by the northeast stairwell only blinks red when active. The back panel leads to the staff cellar—only opens from inside.”

That night, he’d asked if there was someone in the outside world that I could contact. Someone I trusted. Anyone at all. All Grigory needed was a name and an address.

The first person that popped into my head was Liam—the young man who loved me a little more than a friend. He’d come through for me so many times, and right now, I needed him to come through again. One last time.

So, I told Grigory about him.

Two days ago, Grigory handed me a burner phone, wrapped in a white cloth. He didn’t need to tell me to guard it with my life—it was the only way I could communicate with Liam. So, of course, I guarded it with my life.

Last night, he reached out with a text.

“I’m coming for you. Just hold on a little longer.”

Those words melted my heart and brought tears to my eyes. My freedom was at hand—I could almost reach it.

I played it cool all day, smiling even when I didn’t want to, and acted like a good bride. I kept my eyes down, my voice sweet as I waited for my day of freedom. I was unraveling the rope inside me, link by link.

Soon. Very soon.

Tonight, while I showered, I couldn’t help but notice that my thoughts kept returning to Egor. The way he looked at me each time I spoke Russian, like he was seeing me for the very first time, always stole my breath.

Behind those dark, hollow eyes of his was something tender—a flicker of admiration, maybe even pride. Egor was incapable of softness, but lately, something about him had shifted. I wasn’t sure what it was yet.

It was strange that after all this time, he still hadn’t touched me—he hadn’t even made the move despite the lust I often saw in his eyes.

He wanted me. The hunger was there, always simmering beneath the surface.

Yet, he never acted on it. Not out of interest. No, quite the contrary. It was restrained.

A part of me admired that about him.

Like mist, steam curled around me, the hot water beating down my skin, soothing the tension coiled in my shoulders. I arched my head toward the spray, hands in my wet red hair as if trying to wash him from my thoughts.

But I couldn’t stop reminiscing about the way he looked shirtless this morning. The man’s torso was carved like a sculpture, defined and rigid with a set of chiseled abs that had me glued for a moment.

His thick skin was mapped with deep scars and tattoos—Russian symbols inked in bold black, each one telling a story I hadn’t dared ask about yet.

I wiped my face, basking in the warm water trickling down my curves. Thoughts of Egor had eaten deep into my mind, and the more I struggled to get him off, the more I failed.

This was all shades of wrong—I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for this monster. Nothing at all. Yet, somehow, despite everything, he was starting to take up space in my mind I hadn’t given him permission to enter.

He’d invaded my thoughts without even trying so hard, and I hated him for that. I also hated myself for entertaining these thoughts.

I stepped out of the shower, naked, water dripping from my body as I strolled over to the misted mirror. I swiped a palm across the glass and stared at my reflection.

“Focus, Leona. You’re getting distracted,” I said to myself.

My plan hasn’t changed: escape. I hadn’t forgotten how I got here and why I must leave. So, if I was going to survive long enough to see my family again, I’d have to play a different kind of game—a dangerous one. One that meant letting him get close. Letting him touch me.

Maybe even pretending to want it.

Or worse….

Wanting it for real.