Page 20 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

The house was still, unusually quiet this evening. My boots scuffed against the polished marble floor as I walked through the hallway, the scent of gunpowder clinging to me like cologne.

I wiped the dried blood off the edge of my crisp white shirt peeking out from under my suit sleeve.

It had been a crazy week of making examples of people—these greedy bastards just wouldn’t follow the Bratva rules.

Two other moles had been caught selling information to a rival gang.

One was bought over by the enemy, the other was planted as a spy from the beginning.

He was good at covering his tracks; however, Simon was better at uncovering them.

We were on a mission to clean up our organization from the inside out—get rid of all those who were against us. And with each passing day, the number of moles we fished out was enough to build a fuckin’ army.

It made sense now why it seemed like our rivals were always two steps ahead of us in almost everything. They had planted spies amongst us. It was my fault; I lost focus the moment Leona stepped into my life, and that distraction was the window that let these bastards in.

Well, now they’d run out of luck—I was back, and they had my full attention.

One by one, we fished them out, cleansing the Bratva of this cancer.

Simon was more than capable of handling this situation alone.

However, I needed to be the punisher; that way, the others would understand the gravity of betrayal and the consequences of their actions.

My ears were deaf to their pleas when they begged for their lives, when they begged to be spared, to be given another chance to prove their loyalty. The rules were simple, and the punishments were clear. They chose to play with fire, so it was their decision to get burned.

In the silence of the hallway, I heard it—a sound I couldn’t place at first. Crying? No. But close. Breath. Uneven. Shallow. Like someone was drowning above water.

I paused in my tracks and listened. Someone was sobbing—a woman, for sure. Curious, I picked up my pace, following the sound through the hallway, down the east wing.

There, in the narrow pantry, I found her.

Leona.

She was seated on the floor, curled up in a corner with her legs pulled up in front of her. Her eyes were wide, distant, and glassy. Her trembling lips were parted, but no words came, just frantic gasps and uneven breaths.

I looked around, unsure of what to make of this. Sure, she hated me as much as she hated being trapped in this house. But this was different. She never let anyone see her in pain; her emotions were always masked with anger and resentment.

One of the maids, Nikki, rounded a corner with a thick blanket in her hand. The second she spotted me, she froze, her breath hitched. But that wasn’t my concern at the moment. Leona was.

I stepped forward, my expression softening ever so slightly. “Leona?” I called, my voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t respond—perhaps she didn’t even notice my presence. She just sat there with her back against the wall, fingers clawing at the fabric of her shirt. Her lips quivered, and sweat glistened at her temples as she stared absently into space.

“What happened?” I turned to Nikki.

The maid swallowed hard, her chin resting on her chest. “I’m so sorry, sir—I…I didn’t know it would upset her,” she stuttered.

My brows furrowed, deep creases forming between them. “You didn’t know what would upset her?” I growled, anger swelling within me.

She paused, eyes on the ground. “The falcon.”

“What falcon?” My expression darkened.

“The one from Moscow,” she answered, too afraid to lift her head. “It was a gift from one of the elders who missed the wedding. I brought it in through the hallway, and the moment it screeched…your wife, she—she dropped…” Nikki explained.

I looked back at Leona. Something wasn’t right. She was way too strong to be defeated by a fuckin’ falcon. “Get the bird out of here,” I said calmly. “Now.”

Nikki nodded and fled immediately.

I crouched before Leona, eyes pinned on her as I dared to reach out and touch her.

She didn’t respond, just muttered some words under her breath.

This wasn’t my kind of thing—offering comfort to the broken-hearted.

I was the only one allowed to break her heart because that was what I knew how to do best.

Now the tables had turned, and I was tasked with a responsibility that required an aspect of me I had buried a long time ago. My humanity.

What should I say? Where should I begin?

I cleared my throat and took her hand. “You’re safe now,” the words fell from my mouth. “There’s no falcon here. Just me.”

Slowly, she shifted her gaze, her glassy eyes locking with mine. She blinked a few times, then slowly, her breathing started to steady, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Should I wipe it off? Should I not? What the hell am I supposed to do right now?

I squeezed gently against her fingers, and she didn’t flinch; she didn’t pull away. She just stared at me.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” I asked, my voice soft and polite.

She was silent for a moment, then sniffled and wiped her tears. “I hate falcons. The little girl in me associates the bird with tragedy.”

My eyes squinted ever so slightly. “How so?” I asked, indulging her.

She shook her head. “It’s uh…it’s silly and you’ll probably just laugh at me.” She sniffled, avoiding my gaze.

“Try me.”

She paused, shot a quick glance back at me, and watched me for a second. “When I was little, my mother used to raise doves. Gentle, peaceful birds.” A light scoff fell off her lips. “They were so fragile, so delicate, especially their babies.”

Even with tears in her eyes, she still looked so beautiful. And I should be listening to her story instead of observing every detail of her gorgeous face: the faint spark in her eyes and the gentle curve of her lips.

“She taught me how to nurture those birds, and I grew so good at it.” Her hand twitched under mine.

I watched her in silence.

“Over time, I became attached to the doves.” She paused, her smile fading gradually.

“One spring, while I was out in the garden playing with a baby dove, a falcon attacked. Everything happened so fast—all I saw was wings, feathers, and sharp talons. By the time the chaos settled, I realized the falcon had taken the baby dove.”

Still, I didn’t say a word, and as ridiculous as this trauma was, I couldn’t help but feel the need to comfort her.

She met my gaze. “You think it’s ridiculous, don’t you?” Leona scoffed. “Saying it out loud, I now think it’s ridiculous too. But something about that falcon’s screech in the hallway dug up a memory I buried a long time ago.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” I said, my expression softening by a whisper. “Believe it or not, I understand.”

Something faint flashed across her face—something that resembled a smile.

“Losing a loved one can be hard. I know the feeling,” I added, images of my younger sister replaying in my head.

I recalled her smile, the sound of her laughs—and she laughed a lot—all within a split second. It was a memory that I buried long ago, one I had no business revisiting.

She watched me closely, her lips parting like she was about to say something. But no words came forth. Perhaps, at the last minute, she chose to keep quiet about whatever was on her mind.

Leona had wanted to pry, dig a little deeper about who I lost. But it was a good thing that she didn’t. I wasn’t ready to go down that road. Besides, this was about her. Not me.

“My mother passed away shortly after the incident with the dove—and I know one had nothing to do with the other. But ever since, falcons trigger the memory of that day,” she concluded.

I saw the symbolism clearly—doves reminded her of her mother, and falcons reminded her of everything she lost after.

I had no idea what to say to that. Comfort wasn’t my thing—I broke things for a living.

Not fixed them. And in all honesty, I could be likened to the falcon in her story, the one who took something valuable from her.

I was the falcon, and deep down, she knew that to be a fact.

She noticed the way I looked at her, a mix of sympathy and mockery dancing in my gaze.

Her brows drew together. “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer,” she said, her voice laced with dark humor.

“Maybe I will,” I teased. “I mean, it’s not every day you get to see the feisty Leona crying over a baby dove she lost years ago.”

Her face twisted into a plastic frown. “Fuck you,” she murmured, a faint grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

This was the closest thing to a genuine smile I’d seen on her face in a really long time. It warmed my stone-cold heart.

We locked eyes with each other, the world around us fading into the background, leaving just the two of us. She stared at me with purpose, like she was trying to read me—like she was searching for something. I wasn’t sure what, but Leona was searching my eyes.

Her expression softened by the second, replaced by something lighter, something more welcoming. The sparkle in those green eyes sent a cold shiver sprinting down my spine, and the longer I held her gaze, the more my emotions came alive.

What the hell was she doing to me?

I felt something unlock inside me, a feeling stirred from the very depths of my heart.

It was strange in every way possible, but also very comforting.

I was at peace in that moment—nothing else mattered.

All I saw was her. I saw the pain in her eyes, the confusion, the frustration that clung to her like a second skin.

And for the first time, I genuinely saw her for what she was: a scared little girl with a shit ton of weight on her shoulders. All that attitude, all that bravery—that spunk—was nothing but a front. It was the one thing keeping her from falling apart.

She’d been through hell for a girl her age—survived what would have killed many. She scaled through—not unscathed—but with a lot of scars, each one telling a different story of something that should’ve ended her but hadn’t.

The girl was a fighter, a really good one at that. And for someone who’d been through all she did, she sure turned out fine. Her mother’s death, as tragic as it was, was what made her the strong and responsible woman that she was.

Most people would use their pain as an excuse to hurt others, to misbehave, and be a nuisance to society. But not my Leona. She did the exact opposite. She turned her pain into something meaningful.

Her pain was her strength, and she learned to channel it into anger and determination. One thing was certain: Loana West was cut from a different cloth. And that was why she was exceptional amongst her peers.

Without thinking twice, I reached down and lifted her in my arms, bridal style. She didn’t resist, didn’t push me away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around my neck and placed her head against my chest as if listening to the steady beat of my heart.

My boots scuffed silently against the polished marble floor as I walked through the hallway, wondering what exactly she had done to me. Two days ago, I wanted to destroy her, and now here I was, trying to comfort her.