Page 1 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

A low murmur of voices mixed with the steady clack of keys as I sat at my desk, half-listening to someone argue with a landline two desks over. Above, the soft buzz of fluorescent lights hummed like a tired lullaby, their warm glow draped over the open-floor office.

Here at Colton and West—a corporate firm in midtown Manhattan—everything shone. Frosted glass conference rooms, polished marble floors, and even the elevators looked expensive enough to tip.

The Wi-Fi’s good, the coffee’s excellent, and the pay’s even better. People my age would sell their souls for a job like this. Colton and West shone like diamonds; I just got good at pretending not to choke on the glitter.

I worked in finance, dealing with numbers on a daily basis, spreadsheets, and the sterile scent of money and ambition.

I was supposed to love it here, but I didn’t.

The job never really resonated with me, never really fueled my soul, or filled the emptiness inside me.

It was just something I did to pass the time during the day.

My night activities, however, that’s where the actual fun was—the one thing that made me feel alive. Free.

In here, I felt stuck in a small box like a friggin’ bird in a cage. The company had rules that I found rather exhausting: when to show up at work, how to dress, how to speak, when to eat, yadda yadda yadda. It was like I was dressed up in a fancy blazer to work my ass out for someone else’s dream.

I didn’t belong here—never had and most probably never would. I wasn’t built to always play by the rules; I was too stubborn for that. But I also needed the money that came from saying “yes, sir” all day, every day for thirty fuckin’ days in a row.

Perched at my desk, I stared at the string of digits glowing on my dual monitor: stock options, fiscal projects, and spreadsheets bleeding into each other. My manicured fingers rattled across the keyboard, stormy gray eyes squinting at the lit screen.

My black hair, dyed with streaks of deep purple and blue, was tied into a neat bun, the kind that corporate decorum demanded. My tailored blazer fit snugly across my shoulders, the pinstripe fabric concealing the tattooed vines curling around my forearms.

The scent of my black coffee wafted into my nostrils, a subtle reminder that I hadn’t taken a sip yet. My gaze flickered to the mug sitting on my table, fingers taking a pause on the keyboard.

I lifted the mug to my lips, full and perpetually glossed with a subtle plum hue. The flavors exploded on my tongue, and I took a moment to savor the taste in my mouth.

Reclined in my chair, I exhaled sharply, pretending I couldn’t hear Dean from marketing telling the same joke he did last week. Strange how people still laughed like they hadn’t heard it before.

“…and then I told the client, ‘You can’t short the market on my time!’” He cackled, leaning on his cubicle wall.

Then came the scattered laughs from his audience—a few colleagues of ours.

I felt his gaze lingering over me, but I didn’t bother to look in his direction. There’s work to be done.

“Come on, Sharpe. That was funny,” he teased, eyes pinned on me.

I highlighted a section on my spreadsheet and hit a few shortcut keys with practiced ease.

He leaned in. “You know, if you ever smiled, the floor might stop thinking you’re plotting our downfall.”

“What makes you think I’m not?” I asked without turning to look at him.

His brows furrowed, and his eyes squinted as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Right,” he muttered.

“Hey, why are you so guarded anyway? Why so uptight all the time?” Skinny Sam asked, taking a bite of his hamburger.

Skinny Sam? More like Chubby Charles.

I never understood why they called him that, considering he had more belly than a sack of flour. Calling him Skinny Sam was like calling a bald guy Hairy Harry .

“Seems to me like she’s running away from something. Hence the low profile,” Jenny from accounts chipped in, her blond hair shimmering in the soft lights. “Just saying.” She casually shrugged her shoulders after noticing the eyes on her.

I looked her dead in the eyes and said, my voice low and even, “Well, don’t go digging if you don’t wanna find a body.”

Her breath hitched, and for the next few seconds, silence fell. Clearly, the words I said and the way I said them might have come off as…disturbing. It was the best way to get those nosy people to shut up and stay in their lanes.

Skinny Sam was right. I was guarded and uptight. Like everyone else, I had skeletons in the closet I wasn’t ready to face—secrets of my own stashed away. Jenny from accounts wasn’t far from the truth either. She said I was running from something.

Maybe I was.

By 6:47 p.m., the office had already cleared out, but I was still at my desk, rounding up the day’s work. All I could think about was getting the hell out of here and enjoying the rest of my evening.

“For someone who hates it here, you sure stick around like it’s home,” said Bobby, the tall guy from the front row, his voice soft and snarky.

“Who says I hate it here?” I asked, my lips curling into a small smile.

Bobby was one of the very few people at work who’d actually seen my soft expression. I wasn’t the laugh-at-every-joke type—didn’t do office bonding or make a lot of friends. But there were very few exceptions, like Bobby and Emily at the front desk.

Bobby scoffed, slinging his leather messenger bag over his shoulder. “You’re one mysterious woman, you know that, right?”

I stared at him in silence, my small retained. “Goodnight, Bob.”

He tapped my shoulder and said, “Have a good one,” then headed toward the elevator.

A few minutes later, I was done. I powered down my computer, grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair, and strode over to the elevator. Carl, the janitor, a wiry man in a faded cap and rubber gloves, was whistling a song while mopping the floor near the hallway when I passed.

“Goodnight, Ester,” he said, a charming smile playing on his lips.

“Night, Carl,” I replied, my tone mild and friendly as I stepped into the elevator.

He glanced over his shoulder, beaming just before the doors slid shut.

As the numbers dropped, I loosened the bun, shaking my hair like a cat shedding its disguise.

I glimpsed a faint reflection of myself in the elevator wall—exhausted but still beautiful.

My full lips curled into a mischievous grin.

The worst part of the day was over. Now, it was time for the less formal job that allowed more freedom.

***

During the day, I worked at Colton and West. At night, I spent long hours at Ink Ritual, a tattoo studio owned by my friend, Lani. The building was tucked into a nightlife-heavy district near a Bratva-owned club, so I’d had to deal with those Russian knuckleheads more than once.

I didn’t mind the long hours—never did. I loved it here: the buzz of the needle, the smell of ink, the quiet focus it demanded. I felt alive when being creative with the needle, when etching stories into the skin of our clients who came in for the art.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, breathing in the familiar scent of antiseptic and sandalwood incense. The gentle buzz of the needle in the backroom blended with the soft lo-fi music humming from the overhead speakers.

The walls were adorned with original art—some of mine and Lani’s—flanked by framed photos of satisfied clients, showcasing their tattoos.

I swapped my blazer for a faded tank top that revealed my sleeved arm covered in rich ink, flames and florals.

“Long day in finance hell?” Lani’s voice caught my attention at the front desk.

I lifted my head and met her gaze as she sat in a chair, legs crossed on the table. A crooked grin tugged at the corners of her lips, her hazel eyes fixed on me, a piercing needle twirling between her fingers like a baton.

I rolled my eyes, smoothing my hair backward. “Just the usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Lani chuckled, her short, spiky black hair shimmering in the lights. A small piercing sparkled on her nose, matched by another on her left eyebrow, both glinting whenever she moved. “You’re a damn unicorn, you know that? Stock market shark by day, ink goddess by night.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re impressed.” I laughed.

“Maybe I am,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “You work hard for a twenty-two-year-old.”

“Well, what can I say? A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

Lani’s lips pursed as if suppressing a grin.

We were halfway through sanitizing our station when a last-minute call came in; a client had cancelled, but a new walk-in was on the way. Lani was already dead on her feet by now, so I offered to stay and take the late-night slot.

“You sure?” she asked, skepticism coloring her eyes.

“Yeah. I got it. Just sit back,” I replied.

She hesitated for a moment, probably wondering why I always buried myself in work. I’d had a long day at Colton and West, yet here I was, keeping the fire burning.

“Sometimes, you make me feel like I don’t work hard enough,” she mumbled under her breath, striding over to the worn-out couch by the window.

I scoffed and shook my head.

About seven minutes later, the door creaked open, and a huge Asian dude walked in, his broad shoulders blocking the draft behind him. Chinese, Japanese, maybe. I wasn’t sure. He glanced around, taking off his hoodie, eyes cold as ice, with hands scarred in a way that told stories.

Military? Street? Triad?

Whatever the case, this dude clearly had his fair share of violence.

“Evening.” I straightened, meeting his gaze, unfazed by his ruggedness. “You’re the late slot?” I tugged on my black apron, worn and splattered with a few faded splotches of ink.

He nodded.

“Well, make yourself at home.” I gestured to the chair.

In silence, he walked over to the chair and sat on it like it was his fuckin’ throne. I had told him to feel comfortable.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, pulling on my gloves.

He handed me a crumbled printout: a red fire-breathing dragon, fierce and intricate. It was a complicated piece, but I was always up for a challenge.

I glanced at him over the top of the paper. “Nice choice.”

“Hmm.” He made a throaty groan, held out his left forearm, and lifted his sleeve.

With the hum of the needle just seconds away, I turned toward my station, ready to work. This was my element, my mojo: the one thing that kept me focused and distracted at the same time.

Here, under the sterile lights and low music, I was free to be my authentic self.

No need for pretense, no blazer, no fake smiles or annoying colleagues prying into my private life.

All I needed were my hands, my tools, and the art.

That’s all it took to keep me distracted from the turmoil within, the chaos I was running from.

And for the next hour or so, nothing else mattered.

The client sat calmly while I etched the intricate red dragon on his forearm. He didn’t say much, and that suited me; I liked dealing with clients who talked less. Working in silence always helped me stay focused, and when I was focused, the clients left more satisfied than usual.

When buried in work, I was in control of the needle in my hand, carving every line deliberately. It was like magic, and it made me feel fulfilled and accomplished.

Once done, the grumpy client stared at his new tattoo, his lips curling into a proud smirk. He was pleased by my work.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, tinged with an accent.

He tipped me off generously and left, his boots clicking away.

Lani was already dozing off on the couch, snoring with her head on the armrest. Her right leg was slung carelessly over the headrest, arms across her chest.

I scoffed, shaking my head, then began cleaning up. The city was abuzz outside: wailing sirens, belly laughs, and that annoying bass thumping from the Bratva club across the street. Neon lights filtered in through the studio windows, casting electric shadows across the floor.

Maybe I was tripping, but I could swear that I felt it—that feeling of being watched. Beneath the calm exterior, there was a tension rising within, one that I couldn’t quite shake. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, and I straightened, eyes squinting in alarm.

My gaze swept across the studio, then out the window. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just the bustling city and a few drunks chattering and laughing loudly.

Then, my phone rang, snapping me back to the present. I dug a hand in my pocket and withdrew the buzzing device. The caller ID was unknown, a private number. My jaw clenched, brow furrowing softly. I answered the call after a moment of hesitation. “Hello?”

Silence.

I glanced around, my sharp eyes drinking in every detail outside the shop. “Hello?”

Still no response. Just someone breathing on the other end. Slow. Measured.

Before I could warn them not to call this number again, the call ended. I lowered the phone from my ear, my pulse quickening, but I remained as calm as I was. I wasn’t one to panic or scare easily. But this was the third time this week that the same private number had called me and said nothing.

Someone was watching me—following me.

Or maybe it was just the paranoia kicking in.

Whatever the case, I needed to be more careful.

Then I heard it: the quiet footsteps behind me, slow and deliberate. My eyes flickered to the pencil on the table. In one swift motion, I snatched it up, spinning around with the point aimed like a makeshift weapon.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, Black Widow!” Lani raised her hands in surrender. “It’s just me.”

My eyes glanced around for a second, my chest heaving with slow, labored breaths. Then, I lowered my hand, blinking a few times to get a grip on myself. “Sorry. I don’t like being sneaked upon.”

“I can see that,” she said, watching me closely.

I turned around, packed up my stuff, and was ready to call it a day.

“You know, you’re too pretty to be violent like that,” Lani said from behind me.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and faced her. “Pretty doesn’t keep you safe in this city.”

She raised her brows but said nothing.

“Have a good night, Lani.” I tapped her shoulder and headed out into the night.

Everyone thought that I was strange, mysterious. But they had no idea who I was, and I planned to keep it that way.