Page 5 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

She lay unconscious on the bed, her red hair spilled across her face in a tangled mess. Her chest rose and fell with steady breaths, her eyes dark and defiant even in passing out. She looked so tiny on the enormous bed, her petite frame illuminated by the warm glow of the chandelier.

But there was something about her—something that didn’t quite match the delicate picture of a helpless girl.

I watched her from the sofa where I sat with my legs crossed, studying her.

The first thing that caught my attention was her hands—they were rougher than expected for a girl her age.

Her knuckles looked worn, the skin along her fingers slightly cracked and dry.

She looked like someone who worked with her hands more than she should have to.

Her fingers were plain—real.

Not manicured.

Not pampered.

Just the way they were. Natural.

There were faint calluses along her palms, a testament to the fact that she didn’t grow up soft. She either gripped life by the throat at an earlier age, or it gripped her first. Either way, the aura of a fighter and a survivor radiated from her.

I could sense it.

Even unconscious, her body refused to melt into the huge, comfy bed the way it should’ve. Her slightly tense shoulders told me she’d trained herself to stay alert at all times. That kind of instinct only came from surviving through hell.

Everything about this girl was a clear indication that she was carrying a weight heavier than her. And she appeared to be carrying it so well. I wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued by that or concerned because one thing was certain: She would not go down without a fight.

This girl would definitely be a thorn in my side.

Despite the vulnerability flickering in her face, there was something else beneath it—a silent defiance.

She wasn’t a flower. No. She was more like a weed that had learned to grow through concrete.

And the fact that her own father gave her away without hesitation only confirmed my assumptions about her.

And then, she woke up.

Her eyes didn’t flutter for a moment before she realized where she was, and a slight wince didn’t escape her lips.

No. Those eyes just snapped open, wide with panic, as she bolted upright, screaming like someone waking up from a nightmare.

Her breaths came in fast gasps, her chest heaving.

She glanced in my direction, and by the time our eyes met, she was already in motion, limbs flailing as she tried to scramble off the bed.

I’ll admit, she moved quickly.

However, she didn’t get far before Simon reached for her, and despite his quick reflexes, even he didn’t see what hit him.

She lashed out instinctively, her nails raking across his cheek and gouging particles of skin. Her attack drew blood, making him recoil, clutch his face, and curse under his breath.

Simon’s eyes blazed with fury, his expression dark and dangerous as he locked his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. The man was furious, even though he knew better than to hit a woman. The look on his face should’ve been enough to scare the shit out of her.

But shockingly, it didn’t.

This crazy little devil just frowned at him, holding her intense gaze as if she stood a chance against him. She seethed in silence, fists clenched at her sides, ready to punch if necessary.

By this point, I was already blown away, intrigued by the fiery look in her eyes and the fire burning inside her.

For a second there, Simon didn’t believe his eyes; a girl was standing up to him with a challenging glare. I honestly didn’t think I’d live to see the day when the almighty Simon would be caught off guard by someone as small as this pesky little devil.

The audacity she exuded was remarkable.

I couldn’t help but be impressed.

The performance was great—the show was interesting to watch, and it was fun while it lasted. But it was time to get serious.

Without a word, I rose to my feet, my expression dark and unreadable. I wanted to see just how fearless she was—if she’d react the same way she reacted to Simon.

Her breath hitched as I approached her, her jaw locking to mask her fear. But I saw past the scowl on her face—I saw the scared little girl she tried to hide. And it was satisfying.

I froze in front of her, eyes scanning her body as if inspecting a possession I didn’t ask for but might keep anyway. “Leona,” I said softly. “Correct?”

Her father had mentioned her name earlier.

She hesitated, biting down on the inside of her cheek. “Who wants to know?”

“Lose the attitude,” Simon chipped in from behind me, his voice calm but menacing, “or you’ll lose your tongue.”

I watched the fear in her eyes flicker, but she still managed to keep her cool. “Look, I don’t know what business you had with my father, but I want no part of it,” she said, almost pleading. “Please, just let me go.”

Simon scoffed in disbelief but kept silent.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I replied to her, holding her gaze, watching her expression constantly shift somewhere between anger and terror.

“Can’t or won’t?” she questioned.

My lips curled into a faint smirk as I reached out, toiling with the strand of hair that framed her face. She pulled back by a fraction, disgust flashing in her gaze—irritated by my touch. That was expected, considering her predicament, but I couldn’t care less.

“Your father owed the Bratva a reasonable amount of money,” I began, ignoring her attitude. “He knew the rules when he came to us, when he signed the papers. And yet, when it was time to pay back, he tried to outsmart us—I personally do not take it lightly with a breach of contract.”

She was quiet, fuming. But this time, I had a feeling she wasn’t angry at me. She was angry at her father.

“My father is a gambler,” she said, clenching her jaw. “He probably bet all that money at a casino somewhere and lost it all on the same day. It’s him you should go after, not me— he’s the one who took your money. Not me.”

“He’s also the one who traded you in for his freedom. Not me,” I answered with a crooked smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Her lips quivered, her eyes glassy. “You’re a monster.”

“Yes, I am,” I replied, “and you belong to me now.”

“I’m not a piece of property. I belong to no one!” She slammed her hands against my chest.

I looked down at her, unfazed, rooted like a wall she hadn’t yet realized she couldn’t break through. Her effort was real, fueled by rage and frustration, but to me, it felt like wind against stone.

It was almost adorable. Almost.

She glared up at me, her green eyes burning with defiance.

“You should be grateful that I didn’t send you to a brothel or worse,” I said calmly, brushing invisible dust from my lapel.

She shook her head. “You’re sick,” she said, trembling.

“And you’re mine,” I replied, flashing a crooked grin at her. “Simon.”

“Boss,” he answered.

“Take our little guest to the east wing and lock her up until she learns some manners,” I said without turning to look at him.

She didn’t resist when he grabbed her by the arm; she just stared at me in silence. I lit a cigarette, watching as she was being dragged away. I wasn’t sure what it was about her expression that lingered in my head longer than expected.

But I hated it and immediately brushed it to the back of my mind.