Page 22 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

She was a quick learner.

We spent hours in the woods, training, but little did I know that the longer we spent quality time together, the deeper our connection grew. I didn’t take her out there to build a connection. No.

She was a Tarasov now, and that meant that my enemies were her enemies. Those who wanted me dead would also want her dead.

The plan was simple—teach her the basics of self-defense and how to shoot a gun without missing her target. That was it. Or at least, that was all it was supposed to be. But somehow, we didn’t only train; we rekindled a spark, a spark that ignited into a flame.

I’d always been attracted to smart, beautiful girls, and honestly, Leona had checked all my boxes. At first, I thought teaching her would be daunting and would probably drain me mentally and physically. However, that wasn’t the case.

Leona picked things up really fast, and that trait alone intrigued me.

I was in the shower that evening, and all I could think of was our training session a couple of hours ago.

“Guns are loud,” I said, twirling the blade once more. “Messy, and they draw unwanted attention sometimes. But a knife?” I stopped, holding it out with practiced ease. “That’s personal. Quiet—an extension of your body. A knife teaches you how close you’re willing to get to survive.”

She yanked up her eyebrows. “That sounds like therapy to me…with extra steps.”

A smirk tugged at the corners of my lips. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I can tell you one thing for sure: This kind of therapy works.”

She heaved a soft sigh.

“Take it,” I said, handing her the blade—hilt first.

Leona stepped forward and accepted it with a lot less hesitation than expected. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, those eyes green dipping to study the knife. She weighed it, observed it as if it were something from outer space.

“Your grip is wrong,” I said, stepping forward to help adjust the position of her thumb. “It’s not a pen. It’s a weapon. Hold it like one.”

She did as I instructed, but a light chuckle escaped her lips.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, meeting my gaze. “For a man who barely speaks, you sure have a way with words.” A hint of amusement crept into her tone.

“I have a way with knives. And guns. The words come later. If they ever come at all,” I answered, pursing my lips to mask the faint grin tugging at them.

“Shoot first, ask questions later. Got it.”

For a second, silence fell, and neither of us said anything—we just stared into each other’s eyes. We were getting sidetracked, so I had to pull myself back to reality.

I walked over to her back, leaned in, and guided her arm upward. “If you wanna throw it, aim with your shoulder. Not your wrist.”

She angled her arm just right.

“Good.” I massaged her left shoulder. “Let the blade spin, not flop. Feel the weight and let it do the work.”

She pulled her arm back and hurled the knife.

It wobbled midair and stuck—barely—into the bark of the nearest tree, tilting sideways like it was ashamed to be there.

“Ha!” A laugh fell from her mouth. “I hit something!” Her eyes lit up with mirth.

“If that were someone trying to kill you, you’d have annoyed them,” I said, walking over to retrieve the knife.

“You don’t always have to be such a Buzzkill Bob, you know,” she teased, her voice light but edged with a challenge, like she was daring me to loosen up a bit. “At least it stuck. And you should cut me some slack; that was my first attempt.”

“The enemy won’t care about that,” I said, returning with the knife.

“Okay, I take it back; you do not have a way with words.”

I barked a laugh, handing her back the knife. “Try again. This time with less sarcasm and more spine.”

She snatched it from my hand and adjusted her feet, her stance surprisingly accurate. Leona tried again. And again. She failed time after time, but her determination to get it right wouldn’t let her give up.

I stood beside her, watching with my arms crossed. She’d hurl the knife at the tree, run to retrieve it, return to her spot, and hurl it again. She repeated the process over and over until she finally got it right on the twelfth or thirteenth trial—I lost count.

The knife landed—clean—the blade deep, halfway into the trunk with a satisfying thud.

My brows arched in shock. I didn’t see that coming. But perhaps she did, considering that she didn’t make a big fuss about it. Leona didn’t celebrate her win, and this was a major one. I watched her shoulders square with a quiet pride she didn’t voice.

Impressed, I clapped. “Now, that’s how you do it.”

She walked over to the tree and strained for a moment before pulling the blade from the trunk.

After a few more successful throws, Leona was ready for the next step—targets hanging off tree branches. The girl was fast and really good at throwing knives—almost as if she enjoyed it more than shooting guns.

With much practice, she hit all her targets. All of them—with deadly precision.

I beamed with pride, a small smile playing on the corners of my lips. “You’ve done well.”

She halted in front of me, struggling to catch her uneven breaths. “What else do you have for me?” Her voice was tinged with the willingness to learn.

“This,” I answered, pulling out another knife from my belt—smaller, sleek, and curved.

She accepted it, twirling it around like an expert. “It’s lighter. I like it.”

“It’s for close combat,” I said. “In case you’re on the ground and someone’s trying to pin you down, you aim for soft tissues. Throat, armpit, gut. Don’t waste time stabbing anyone in the ribs; you’ll end up breaking the blade.”

Her brows arched. “You live for this, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She scoffed. “What if they’re stronger—the enemy?”

“Then you become meaner—more violent,” I answered.

“Go for the eyes, the groin, and the tendon behind the knees.” I paused, letting the words sink in first. “I’ve seen you in action—the day you took on two of my guys on your own.

That’s how it’s done. Don’t play fair ’cause the enemy won’t. It’s kill or be killed.”

Her face hardened. Not from fear or disgust. But sheer understanding.

“You survive, Leona. At all costs.” I took three steps back. “Come at me.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I didn’t stutter, did I?”

She hesitated, scratching the back of her head. “This is ridiculous. I’m not—”

“It wasn’t a request,” I said, my expression cold as ice. “Now gimme your best shot. Show me what you’re made of. You’ve always wanted to strike me, right? Well, now’s your chance.”

She drew a deep, long breath and then lunged at me. Her attack was as expected—sloppy and very predictable.

I sidestepped, spanking her ass in the process. “Dead.”

She stumbled forward, got a grip of herself, and turned around to face me, a flash of irritation dancing in her eyes.

“You’re upset. Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” My lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk, the one she hated so much.

Leona groaned and launched another attack at me, her arms slinging violently, the blade slicing through the air. I dodged all of her strikes and disarmed her in a single move. I trapped her arm, twisting her wrist gently until she gasped, the blade dropping from her grip.

I let her go, and she glared at me with the eyes of a predator, fingers massaging her wrist.

“Again.”

Her expression darkened. Leona scratched the blade off the ground and came at me—more ferocious this time. She faked a lunge and then pivoted. Smart. However, I saw that coming. To encourage her, though, I let her graze my side just enough to leave a flesh wound before seizing her hand.

I spun her around, then pulled her close, her back against my front. Her hands were trapped in mine, her ass against my groin, chest heaving.

“Good. Very good,” I said softly, holding her in place. “But you’re still trapped in my arms.”

She laughed lightly. “Am I?” Leona tilted her head slightly, just enough to glance up at my face.

And then, with one swift move, she drove the back of her heel straight into my groin.

My eyes widened, and my breath hitched as a sharp grunt tore from my throat. “Fuck!” My grip loosened around her, both hands flying to my crotch. I staggered backward, face contorting in pain.

“Shit—I’m so sorry!” She dashed toward me, eyes wide with concern. “I didn’t know it was gonna hurt.”

“It’s fine,” I groaned, stretching out my hand, as if to tell her not to bother coming closer.

She paused in her tracks, the concern in her gaze gradually switching to something a little more amusing. Her hand darted upward, sealing the laughter that had almost jumped out of her mouth.

I faked a frown. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s not every day you get the chance to knock down Egor Tarasov himself.” She let the laughter burst out of her, raw and unrestrained.

I shook my head, unable to hide the genuine smile on my lips.

She whipped her red hair back in one fluid motion, and for a moment there, I could’ve sworn that time stood still. It was as if the world hit pause just to watch her burn.

I turned the shower off, wiped a palm across my face, and drew in a deep breath. With a towel slung low over my hips and rivulets of water tracking the ridges of my torso, I stepped out of the bathroom.

The air in the room was warm, but it thickened when she walked in, dressed in a purple nightgown. She’d showered before I did and had stepped out to get some air. Now, here she was, standing by the door, the hem of her dress kissing her alluring thighs.

Her red hair was still a little damp, her eyes catching the chandelier light above.

She walked further into the room, her footsteps soundless against the marble floor—measured and graceful.

One strap of her sexy nightgown had slipped off her shoulder, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the skin above her breasts.