Page 18

I press the barrel of the gun harder against Jennifer’s abdomen, watching as her face contorts in terror. There’s something intoxicating about the way fear courses through her. The way her body trembles beneath my grip, the helplessness in her eyes—it’s power. Control. I like breaking her, watching her spirit shatter under my hand.

She’s mine. She always has been, and I won’t let her forget it.

Her lips quiver as she tries to form words, but before she can speak, the sharp sound of a cry fills the air. My grip on her falters as the noise cuts through the tension. A baby’s cry.

Jennifer’s eyes widen in panic, and for the first time, I see a different kind of fear flash across her face. “Please… leave us alone,” she begs, her voice desperate. Her hands move toward me, but my men grab her, pulling her back before she can stop me.

Ignoring her pleas, I turn toward the source of the cry, my curiosity piqued. There’s something in her voice, a crack in her defiance, that tells me whatever’s in that room is important—something she’s been hiding from me. My jaw clenches as I stride toward the door.

“Timur, no!” she screams, struggling in their grasp, her voice breaking. “Please, don’t go in there!”

My men hold her tighter, their eyes trained on me for orders. I don’t need to give any. I know they’ll keep her in place. She’s not going anywhere.

I push the door open, and my eyes land on a crib in the corner. The crying stops almost immediately as I approach. It’s a baby boy, no more than nine months old. He stares up at me with blue eyes the same shade of mine. He has Jennifer’s messy hair, her petite nose. The sight of him makes something twist inside my chest, a feeling I don’t recognize.

The baby’s tiny fists grip the edge of the blanket as he watches me. There’s no more crying, just the quiet, innocent gaze of a child who knows nothing of the world he’s been born into. For some reason, the sight tugs at something deep within me—a part of myself I didn’t even know existed.

I take a step closer, my gaze fixed on the boy. He’s… quiet now, completely still, as though my presence calms him. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the way he watches me with those big eyes—it stirs something I haven’t felt in years. Something dangerously close to affection.

Turning slowly, I look back at Jennifer, who’s standing frozen in the doorway, held back by my men. Her face is pale, tears streaking down her cheeks. She knows what I’m thinking. She knows the question that’s about to leave my lips.

“Whose child is this?” My voice is cold, but inside, a storm is brewing. There’s only one answer that makes sense, but I need to hear it from her. I need her to admit it.

Jennifer swallows hard, her eyes darting between me and the baby. The fear on her face is unmistakable, but there’s something else now. A kind of resignation, like she’s about to give up the last piece of herself that she’s been hiding.

She hesitates for a moment, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she says, “He’s your son.”

The room falls silent.

My son.

The words hang in the air like a weight, pressing down on me. I turn back to the crib, staring at the small boy lying there, his tiny chest rising and falling in time with the soft sounds of his breathing. My son.

A rush of conflicting emotions surges through me—anger, confusion, disbelief—but beneath all of that, there’s a strange sense of… pride? I push the thought away, refusing to let it take root. This child is a complication. An obstacle. I don’t have room for sentiment.

This changes everything.

I turn back to Jennifer, her tear-streaked face now contorted with desperation. She looks ready to collapse, her body trembling as she stares at me, waiting for my reaction. She must think I’ll kill her now, that her betrayal has sealed her fate. Maybe it has.

“How long?” I ask, my voice cold and measured. “How long have you been keeping this from me?”

Jennifer sobs, her knees nearly buckling as she tries to answer. “Since I left,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to bring him into your world. I thought… I thought it was safer this way.”

Safer? The thought ignites something dark inside me. She took my child, my blood, and kept him hidden from me. Ran from me, betrayed me, all while carrying my son. My hands clench into fists, and I force myself to take a breath, to not let the rage take over completely.

“I told you, Jennifer,” I say, stepping closer to her, my voice low and dangerous. “You belong to me, therefore so does he.”

Her eyes widen as I close the distance between us, towering over her as I speak. “You thought you could hide from me, keep this secret?” I grab her arm roughly, pulling her toward me.

She tries to speak, to beg for mercy, but I cut her off with a growl. “Don’t even think about running again. Because this time, I’ll find you. There won’t be any more mercy.”

The sound of the baby crying breaks through the tense silence between us. My grip loosens slightly on Jennifer’s arm as the baby’s cries grow louder, more desperate. His small, innocent voice fills the room, and for a moment, the rage inside me softens, just a little.

Jennifer’s eyes dart toward the crib, her maternal instinct kicking in as she tugs against my hold. “Please,” she whispers, her voice trembling with urgency. “Let me go to him.”

I stare at her, my jaw clenched. For a brief second, I consider keeping her pinned here, making her feel the weight of her decisions. But the baby’s cries tug at something deep within me, something unfamiliar and unsettling. I release her arm.

“Go,” I say gruffly, stepping back. “You’re not leaving this room. They stay by the door.” I motion to my men, who stand silently by the entrance, their eyes sharp and watchful.

Jennifer rushes to the crib, scooping the baby into her arms with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the chaos and violence swirling around us. She cradles him against her chest, her face softening as she shushes him, trying to calm his cries. I watch her, my gaze hardening as I fight back the conflict raging inside me. She lied. She ran. But she’s the mother of my child, and that complicates everything.

“He’s scared,” Jennifer murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as she strokes the baby’s head. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

I take a step closer, my eyes narrowing as I look down at the small bundle in her arms. His tiny fists clutch at her shirt, and the sight stirs something in me—something I can’t fully understand. This is my son. My blood. He has no idea what world he’s been born into, no idea of the violence and darkness that surrounds his existence. I know that now, more than ever, they both belong to me.

“You and the baby are coming back with me,” I say firmly, my voice leaving no room for argument.

Jennifer’s head snaps up, her eyes wide with defiance. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says, her voice shaky but resolute. “This is my life now. You can’t just waltz in here and—”

I cut her off with a harsh laugh. “You think you have a choice in this? You think after what you did, after keeping my son from me, that you get to decide?”

Her grip tightens around the baby, and I see the panic rise in her eyes. She’s afraid, but she’s also stubborn—something I both admire and despise in her.

“I’m not going back to New York,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I’ve built a life here. I have a job, I have—”

“You have one hour to pack your things,” I interrupt coldly, stepping closer until I’m towering over her again. “You won’t need to work. You’ll dedicate yourself to me and to our child. That’s your life now.”

She shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes again as she cradles the baby tighter. “Timur, please. You can’t just—”

“One hour, Jennifer,” I repeat, my voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me ask again.”

She looks down at the baby in her arms, her expression torn between fear and resignation. I can see the wheels turning in her mind, the conflict in her eyes. She wants to fight back, but she knows she’s cornered. There’s no escape this time.

The baby’s cries have softened now, his tiny hands clutching at Jennifer’s shirt as he looks up at her with wide, innocent eyes. I watch them both, my anger simmering just beneath the surface, but as I look at my son—my flesh and blood—I feel something unfamiliar. A flicker of something softer, something almost protective.

I take another step closer, my gaze shifting from Jennifer to the baby. His small face is a mirror of hers, but there’s something in his eyes that reminds me of myself. The realization hits me harder than I expected, and for a moment I feel… something. Something beyond the rage and the need for control.

“He’s mine,” I say quietly, more to myself than to her. “He’s… mine.”

Jennifer looks up at me, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “That’s right, he’s our son,” she says softly, her voice trembling with emotion.

I don’t respond. Instead, I reach out, brushing my fingers lightly against the baby’s cheek. His skin is soft, warm, and for a fleeting second, I feel something close to tenderness. I quickly pull my hand back, shoving the feeling down as I harden my expression once again.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed as I watch her move around the room, packing her things. She’s quiet, her movements quick and efficient, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands shake slightly when she reaches for something. She’s nervous, terrified even. Good.

She throws some clothes into a bag, her back to me as she avoids looking in my direction. There’s someone stationed in every room of this place, and she knows it. There’s no escape this time. No more disappearing in the middle of the night like she did before. Not again. Not with my son in tow.

The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I don’t speak, and neither does she. I don’t need to say anything. My presence alone is enough to keep her on edge.

As she reaches for the closet, something catches my eye. A dress, hanging among her more practical clothes. It’s different, more revealing, something meant for a night out. The fabric is a deep shade of red, silky and elegant, with a plunging neckline. My jaw clenches as I take it in.

“Why do you need something like that?” I ask, my voice low but sharp.

Jennifer freezes for a second, her hand still on the dress. Slowly, she turns to look at me, her eyes wide. “I… I went out last month,” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper.

My gaze narrows, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You went out?” I repeat, taking a step closer to her. “In that?”

She nods, swallowing nervously. “It was just a night out, with some friends. That’s all.”

I don’t like the idea of her out there, dressed like that, without me. My chest tightens, a possessive rage bubbling up inside me. The thought of her wearing something so sexy, something meant to draw attention, while I wasn’t there to keep her in check…. It makes my blood boil.

“Pack it,” I order, my voice rough. “It’s for my eyes only. No one else gets to see you in something like that.”

Jennifer bites her lip, turning back to the closet and pulling the dress off the hanger. She folds it carefully and tucks it into the bag. I watch her every move, the tension between us growing with each second that passes.

“Have you been with other men?” I ask suddenly, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

She spins around, eyes wide with shock. “No,” she blurts out, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I haven’t… not since you.”

My fists tighten at my sides, the rage simmering down just a little. I needed to hear that. I needed to know that no one else has touched her, that no one else has had her since the night we were together.

“Good. It stays that way.”

She doesn’t respond, her eyes dropping to the floor as she turns back to her packing. I can see the conflict in her, the way she’s struggling to accept what her life has become. She hates me for what I do, for what I am, but there’s no denying the pull between us. No denying that, despite everything, she’s mine.

As she continues packing, I move closer, watching her carefully. She tries to ignore me, but I can see the way her body reacts to my presence. She’s not as indifferent as she wants to be.

“You’re coming back with me, tonight,” I say quietly, my voice almost gentle now. “You’ll do as I say. You’ll stay with me, take care of our son, and you’ll stop running. Do you understand?”

Her shoulders tense, but she nods, her voice barely audible as she mutters, “I understand.”

She zips up the bag and places it by the door, straightening up and finally meeting my eyes. There’s fear in her gaze, but something else too. A flicker of defiance, of resistance.

I don’t mind it. She can fight all she wants. She can resist. In the end, she’ll learn.