Page 25 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

I lay on his broad chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, my fingers tracing the scars that mapped his skin. I was tired—exhausted from the slow, passionate marathon we just ran. But my mind was still replaying the scene, broadening the grin on my face.

The room pulsed with the steady sound of two hearts beating as one, the air tinged with the scent of sweat and perfume. His arms wrapped around me, possessive and also protective. I’d never felt safer in my whole life, and now I took a moment to appreciate the irony.

I couldn’t help the smile playing on my lips, nor could I help the warmth spreading across my body like wildfire. I was at peace in his strong arms—satisfied—and for the first time since I arrived here, I genuinely felt like I belonged.

The gentle rise and fall of his chest and the feeling of his palm smoothing down my hair helped me relax. I lay there in silence, completely blown away by the sex.

It was undoubtedly the best I’d ever had.

How can I hate him and love him at the same time? I thought to myself. Then, I paused. Love? No. That’s too strong a word to describe how I feel.

Although I denied my emotion, one thing still remained: the fact that I no longer felt that much hatred for him anymore. Despite what he did to my friend, Liam, I couldn’t find a place in my heart to loathe him. I wanted—I tried. I just couldn’t.

I wasn’t sure what he did to me—before or during sex—but whatever it was, it was gradually changing my view of him.

What if he wasn’t as bad as he wanted people to believe? What if deep down, this monster was just as human as the rest of us?

These past few days, it was like the monster was in exile and I was left the man, just the man.

Egor. The real Egor that not everyone had the privilege to meet.

And honestly, I liked him. I liked this version better.

He was more affectionate, and he paid more attention to everything—my words, my emotions, and even my body.

Oh, the way he paid attention to my body.

Thinking about it now made my pussy tingle, my fingertips too.

The last time he claimed me as his own, he was rough, violently so. But I liked it. I enjoyed every bit of it—the fast-paced fuck, the spanking, and the hair pulling. What happened a few minutes ago, however, was an entirely different thing altogether.

We didn’t just have sex. We made love—connected on so many levels.

He didn’t fuck me. He made me feel like a woman—a goddess whose body he took the time to worship and adore. I barely recognized him when he worked on me as though he was molding and reshaping me into a different person.

He earned my respect; that was for sure. I’d always heard that good sex could fix a good number of marital problems. I hadn’t believed it. But lying right here in his arms and feeling so peaceful, I couldn’t help but have a rethink. Maybe there was some atom of truth in that.

The silence thickened between us, the wind howling in through the windows. The curtains danced to its rhythm, as did the leaves in the bushes outside. Everywhere was quiet, as if the world was holding its breath, astonished by the genuineness of our union.

My mind was still reeling from the fact that I lost control of myself—and that I also gained control over him.

I dominated a man like Egor, gave orders and instructions on what he should or should not do.

And he listened. He friggin’ listened. He obeyed—did as I wanted, even when it was inconvenient for him.

The things that I said unashamedly in the heat of the moment—those nasty, crazy words—still lingered on the fringes of my mind. I thought I’d regret them once the excitement was no more; I thought I’d die of shame, that I’d be embarrassed about what I did.

But I wasn’t. I didn’t feel shame or regret. No. Instead, I felt proud of myself. I was so proud to have made love to my stone-hearted husband to the point where he couldn’t resist my dominance. The sex was so good that he found himself doing my bidding, playing my game.

I suddenly realized the power between my legs—what the result of good, passionate sex could be.

It was a form of therapy and healing, a drug that cured physical, mental, and emotional stress.

Sex was a weapon in the wrong hands. But when used rightly, it could be a tool capable of saving a marriage.

One thing was clear: My husband found me irresistible. He adored and worshiped my body. Perhaps, I was starting to matter to him. Why else would he hold me so tightly, like I’d vanish the moment he let go? I could use this to my advantage—turn things around in my marriage.

Or maybe I could weaponize this and manipulate him into doing my bidding, fulfilling my every wish.

I could do that.

Yes.

But there was just one problem.

That wasn’t the type of woman I was. That wasn’t me. It was evil, and doing that to him would make me no different from the monster I thought he was. How could I make a difference by doing the very thing I was against?

It was okay to fight fire with fire sometimes.

But that was for someone who had the zeal and determination to fight.

I didn’t have that anymore. Maybe if this had happened a few months ago, I’d have given in to this temptation.

Right now, things were very different from the way they were when I first arrived.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t manipulate him like that, even though it would be so easy, seeing that he was already loosening up around me. It would be catastrophic if I were to fail, though. He wouldn’t forgive me this time, and the things he’d do to me would be beyond my imagination.

However, that fear wasn’t the reason I decided not to heed the voice. No. I just couldn’t hurt him. And that was the truth. I didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to use him. It was selfish, evil, and manipulative. I was none of that.

I noticed how I now thought of him as my “husband,” not my “jailer.” That was a sign that something had finally cracked open inside me. Something vulnerable. What was it, though? Maybe I knew the answer to that, but I was just too afraid to accept it.

While I lay on his chest, at peace with myself, my eyes caught a scar just below his ribcage.

It looked like a bullet wound, or a stab wound: old, jagged, and raw.

It looked like something from a brutal fight, one that would have claimed his life if the injury had been sustained a few inches higher.

Of all the deep cuts and slices that marked his skin, this was the one that grabbed my attention.

I remembered the other day in the hallway when he said he knew what it was like to lose a loved one.

Maybe there’s a story behind it, and maybe it’s connected to one of the scars on his body.

There was only one way to find out. I should ask.

Right?

Or should I just mind my own business?

How would he respond? How was I even going to begin? Where should I start from?

Just let it go. Don’t push your luck. Men like him don’t like nosy women. Shut your mouth, a demeaning voice whispered in my head.

And just when I was about to heed it, another voice rose from within, bolder and more confident.

Don’t shut your mouth. You’re his wife, and men like him are intrigued by women who are unafraid to speak when necessary. It’s just a question—a means to start a conversation that might help you know him better. Talk.

The other voice was drowned out instantly, leaving me with no choice but to speak.

“These scars…” I began, my voice a little faint from disuse. “…they’re proof of the things that should’ve killed you but didn’t.” I paused, my fingers lingering above the wound I was contemplating touching.

He was silent, arms still wrapped around me.

I dared to touch the wound. “What’s the story behind this one?”

His hand snapped out and clutched my wrist, his quick reflexes startling me. I gasped, flinched, and raised my head to look at his face. His brows were knitting together, a faint scowl flashing across his features.

Oops! Guess I crossed a line.

I told you so, that demeaning voice came back, but I was quick to push it to the back of my mind.

I held my husband’s gaze with an expression so soft that I watched it melt his reserve. Quietly, he loosened his grip on my wrist, his countenance shifting from anger to something a little less dark. Something light and welcoming.

“Betrayal,” he said, his voice flat, eyes pinned on me.

Wait a minute. Is he about to open up? I thought, feeling my anticipation building by the second.

I straightened up on top of him, my knees sinking into the mattress on both sides. His cock—now shrunk—was still buried inside me, his load still smeared over my skin.

He looked up at me, adjusted, and sat upright with his back against the headboard while I sat astride him.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice soft and polite.

“I trusted the wrong man,” he said, “and this was the result.” He placed a palm over the wound.

“That’s oddly vague. But okay,” I teased, attempting a subtle emotional blackmail.

He saw what I did there and scoffed, fingers scratching his brows. “I’m not a storyteller.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Neither am I. But I’m willing to listen.”

He hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Two years ago, a childhood friend of mine turned against me. He allied with the enemy and sold out sensitive information that almost ruined the family business.” He paused and met my gaze. “Almost ruined me.”

I listened, silent and observant enough to catch the glint of pain simmering beneath the surface. Whoever that friend was, they caused more damage to him than he cared to admit.

“I snapped his neck with my own hands and burned his house to the ground when I found out what he’d done,” Egor said, his face contorting into a frown.

“But that was after he’d already stabbed me below my ribcage.

He’d aimed for my heart but missed—I’d always been faster than him.

One second of hesitation would have cost me my life. ”

My eyes flickered to the wound, my hand daring to touch it again. He didn’t stop me this time; he just sat there, watching me massage it gently and reverently.

“You blame yourself for his betrayal,” I whispered softly, fingers working their magic over his wound. “You shouldn’t. There was no way you could’ve known he’d turn against you.”

“I should’ve been smarter,” he said, “especially because decades ago, my older brother made the same mistake, and it cost our sister’s life.”

I paused, eyes darting back to his face, a hint of surprise flickering in my gaze.

He had a sister? Interesting.

“Maria,” he said, “that was her name.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “And you remind me of her sometimes—stubborn, fierce, and beautiful.”

My lips curled into a faint smile.

He called me beautiful.

I bowed my head, hiding my flushed cheeks. But this wasn’t about me—it was about the sister he lost.

“What happened to her?” I asked, looking into his eyes.

“She was murdered—killed by an enemy disguised as a friend, my brother’s friend.”

My brows arched. “Your brother?”

“Yulian,” he answered, “the one who was stabbed in the back by the one he trusted the most. The one who watched our sister draw her last breath before the avalanche.”

I closed my eyes, rubbing my forehead in an attempt to follow the story. “I’m sorry, I’m confused.”

“Yulian went hunting with his friend one winter afternoon—Maria tagged along. Things got heated between them after Yulian found out that his friend had lured him out there to kill him. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have let Maria come along.”

I felt his pain, and my heart broke at the mere thought of losing a sibling. I had four younger ones, and all of them were alive and well. It was a thing to be grateful for, and I was.

Yes, Egor was a monster, but he’d suffered more loss and pain than most people I knew. Grigory had once told me that Egor lost his mother at a young age. Now, I just found out that he lost his sister, too.

Two years ago, he lost a friend—killed a friend. Although he did it with good reason, it still didn’t make it hurt any less. The man was betrayed by someone he trusted—stabbed by someone he called a brother.

And with everything he’d been through growing up, I came to the conclusion that he wasn’t born ruthless. Life and people’s choices shaped him into who he was today.

Maybe if I’d been born into his world, I’d be just as evil, or maybe even worse.

Quietly, I leaned in, wrapping my arms around his back as I rested my head on his chest. That was all I could offer at the moment: a hug. He hesitated for a second before smoothing my hair back with his palm.

We sat in silence, our hearts beating as one.