Page 8 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

This room was almost as big as my dad’s apartment, designed with only one thing in mind. Luxury. The interior was incredible, the lighting on point, and the state-of-the-art furniture was just exquisite. Everything in here screamed opulence, comfort, and style.

However, it was quite unfortunate that this was my prison, and despite all the amazing stuff around me, that would never change. My jailer didn’t throw me in his dungeon; that should mean something.

I hadn’t exactly been on my best behavior, and yet he still hadn’t thrown me in a dark cell.

Yes, this place should have one, considering how enormous the mansion was.

Not to mention how evil my jailer was. I was almost one hundred percent sure that he had a secret torture chamber somewhere down in the basement.

But maybe I’d feel a little better if I were down there with the rats, the smell, and the dirt. At least then, I’d know for sure that I was his prisoner. I wouldn’t feel so guilty living in such luxury while my siblings suffered in that tiny apartment, trapped with our father.

The meals they served me here were unlike any I’d ever tasted or even seen.

The delicacies were mouthwatering, and the aroma was so enticing it always made my stomach turn.

Under different circumstances, I would rush those meals without a second thought.

But after everything that’s happened—the deal between this devil and my father—I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything they offered me here.

I ate just a bit to keep me going so I wouldn’t die of hunger, even though all I wanted to do was eat to my satisfaction. Maybe it was my pride getting in the way; maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was just the guilt of eating a three-course meal while my siblings starved at home.

My conscience wouldn’t let me eat, and it wouldn’t even let me sleep peacefully on the king-sized bed.

Sometimes I lay on the floor because it was the closest thing to hardship this room offered.

I was surrounded by luxury, but my heart was in pieces.

I mourned. Not for myself, but for the kids at the mercy of our nonchalant old man.

At this point, I wasn’t sure where he drew the line anymore.

What if he woke up one morning and decided to sell them off to the highest bidder?

What if his carelessness cost them their lives?

Would he even bother feeding them? Micah was sick.

Would the old man think to care for him?

And then there was little Emmy, the eight-year-old who hardly knew her left from her right. Dad had no experience raising teenagers, let alone a kid her age. He’d fail badly even if he tried. But the question remained: Would he try?

Every day I spent trapped here, it broke my heart into pieces. The longer I stayed in this cursed place—locked up and unproductive—the closer my siblings came to depression.

Later that day, I decided to take a stroll around the mansion. And as usual, I was flanked by two huge men—the same ones I hurt the last time I attempted to run away. Yeah, they still held a grudge against me—it was clear in the way they glared at me all the time.

Maybe I bruised their ego; maybe that little incident got them in trouble with their boss or had their colleagues laughing at them. Whatever the case, they did not like me at all. The feeling was mutual—I hated them, their boss, and everyone in this cursed place.

I walked down the hallway like the prisoner I was, with those two big idiots following close behind me. Maybe they were told never to leave my side. I guess their boss couldn’t risk me being unguarded—I’d proven to be a force to be reckoned with.

They underestimated me once; they weren’t about to make the same mistake again. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but one thing was certain: I’d made such a name for myself that I now had my own personal guards. At least, that was how I chose to see it.

The hallway was quiet, the scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne wafting through the air—heavy and suffocating. I moved in silence between the guards, the polished marble floor cool beneath my bare feet. The lights above hummed faintly, spaced in long, sterile intervals.

At first, while taking a walk, it used to be hard to focus on anything or even think straight with these two big idiots always watching me. But now, I’d gotten used to their presence—used to their long glares. It didn’t matter how much they hated me, though; they weren’t authorized to touch me.

Joke’s on them, I guess.

We rounded a corner and I heard them before I saw them—two indistinct voices, low and urgent. It wasn’t English. No. It was Russian.

No one here knew this, but I spoke Russian. Well, partially if I’m being honest. But I had enough knowledge to get me through the basics. If Mom hadn’t passed away so soon, she would have taught me more about my Russian heritage.

The urgency in the voices ahead piqued my curiosity. Sharp. Heated. The kind of conversation that only happens when you think no one’s listening.

Gossip?

Maybe.

But this was different—laced with anger and concern.

The guards slowed down, distracted by something on the comms in their ears. This was my cue, and I was going to take it. Quietly, I drifted a step, pausing near a carved archway that led to a slightly open room.

Inside, two older men stood facing each other in front of a long mahogany table. One had silver streaks in his hair and spoke with a low, commanding tone. The other, a bit younger with dirty blond hair that caught in the light, listened in silence, nodding intermittently.

My Russian was a bit rusty, and their words flew past too fast for me to catch. However, the conversation was about marriage and how a certain Egor was not getting any younger.

Then, for emphasis, the old man with the silver streaks in his hair switched to English, the Russian accent creeping into his tone.

“If Egor doesn’t marry soon,” he began, pointing reflexively at the other man’s chest. “I’ll be forced to move the motion to revoke his rank. He knows the rules—he knows our tradition. Yet, he’s choosing to be adamant about the whole thing.”

I squinted, my head tilting slightly to the side, wondering who these men were talking about and why Silver Streak here was so bitter. Then it hit me. Who else? They must be talking about my jailer.

So that’s his name, huh? Egor?

Considering that he was an embodiment of evil, it was actually wicked of Silver Streak to even suggest that Egor should settle down soon. Settle down with who, exactly? Some ignorant, innocent woman somewhere?

No woman deserved to be married to such a monster. At this point, I could only pity whoever was unfortunate enough to agree to this ungodly union.

No woman in her right senses will marry this beast, except, of course, if she’s just as evil as he is.

The thought alone made my face twist into a frown. I was disgusted by the idea, and by now, my brows had already knit together, creating deep creases between them.

Silver Streak continued, “He’s stayed too long without an heir. No stability. No bride. No respect. He better do something about that and stop embarrassing us.”

Ooh, temper, temper , I thought, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

The other man finally spoke, “When the others arrive, we’ll raise this during the meeting.”

Others? Wait, they’re having a meeting over this?

The fact that Egor’s inner circle was mad at him for not getting married brought me a strange kind of satisfaction. And I couldn’t help the grin on my face. They were threatening to replace him if he didn’t play by the rules.

Interesting.

I pressed back into the wall, half behind a heavy curtain, my curiosity piqued. Quietly, I leaned closer, trying to catch more, but things didn’t go as expected.

Silver Streak turned his head, his gaze sweeping the hall until it settled right on me.

I froze.

My throat felt so dry all of a sudden, eyes slightly wide with shock.

He didn’t say anything, just watched me silently, as if trying to figure me out. I hadn’t seen him or the other man at the mansion before, so I guess they were visitors. And from what I heard, more were on the way.

The other man traced Silver Streak’s gaze, and now both men were looking at me.

I was confused, tempted to say, “Hello,” but I managed to keep my cool.

“Hey!” One of my bodyguards approached me, his grip firm around my hand. “Know your place,” he growled, his voice thick and raucous.

And just like that, he yanked me away with seamless ease.