Page 15 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh on her. Now she’s sick, lying asleep in the hospital bed. For the first time in a long while, I felt this gnawing pit in my stomach—guilt.

Impossible.

I dealt with that weak part of me decades ago—there was no way in hell that I was feeling guilty for punishing the enemy’s daughter. She had it coming with that sharp tongue of hers; her father had it coming.

Or did he?

The bastard should have already struck by now, but he hadn’t.

He was either planning something more sinister, or he didn’t really give a shit about her.

I had Maxim do a background check on the girl, and it turned out that Ester wasn’t exactly her father’s biggest fan.

She ran away from home at fifteen and moved to NYC, where she started her life anew—away from her father’s world of violence.

Ester and Marco weren’t close enough to build the father-daughter bond I had hoped for. The bastard was so power hungry that he failed his own daughter. He was no father. He was an even bigger monster than I was.

Perhaps I was wrong.

Did I make her suffer for no reason?

Whatever the case, family was still family.

One way or another, Ester must still be useful to him in some way.

Marco might have been a real asshole for a father, but he was still a businessman.

Maxim, my second-in-command, had found out from our man on the inside that Marco Moretti’s goons, led by Franco, had forced the poor girl back to the mansion.

Marco didn’t suddenly grow a heart. No. If he sent his men after his daughter out of the blue, then that only meant he had a use for her. And whatever it was, I bet it was his own personal gain.

Father of the year!

Ester was, in fact, the victim here, and I shouldn’t have been too hard on her.

I sat in a corner of the hospital room, my feet tapping on the floor, somewhat nervous. My jaw clenched in annoyance at how concerned I was about her safety, about how much I cared. This wasn’t me, and I hated the man I was becoming around her—soft and gentle.

The EKG beeped steadily beside her bed, her lithe figure unmoving. Her chest was rising and falling with slow, even breaths. She looked small in the bed—weak and fragile. Her skin was pale, her lips cracked, a testament to how dehydrated and malnourished she was.

She looked like she was suffering from a terminal disease because of me.

Ester didn’t deserve to have gone through the hell I put her through. That should’ve been the bastard, Marco Moretti.

This pit in my stomach—this guilt, mixed with anger and confusion—was killing me slowly.

My eyes narrowed as I watched her sleep, hoping she was out of harm’s way. I hated hospitals—the silence, the vulnerability, and the smell of antiseptic solutions. I wouldn’t still be seated here, watching over her like a fuckin’ guardian angel, if she were someone else.

Yet, here I was, doing what I hated—waiting at a hospital—just to make sure she was okay.

Not so strong now, are you? I thought to myself, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

My lips twisted into a small grin, intrigued by her strength, her survival instinct, and that sharp tongue of hers. It was her weapon, and she sure knew how to use it. The girl was a pain in my ass. She wouldn’t break, wouldn’t beg, and wouldn’t shed a fuckin’ tear.

She was different from other girls her age: stronger, smarter, more resilient. I guess running from home at fifteen and fending for yourself has a way of remolding and reshaping someone.

Ester was a survivor, a fighter, one who earned herself a title amongst my men, Tigrítsa smérti—Tigress of Death.

As I watched her in awe, I couldn’t help the pride brewing within me.

Most people would break under far less difficult situations, but not her. She showed no fear, refused to wallow in self-pity, or even beg for mercy. She channeled her pain into anger and held on to her pride, her dignity until the very end.

What a woman.

Ester stirred slowly, a faint groan escaping her lips as her hand darted to her forehead.

She was awake. At last.

Her fingers rubbed her forehead, then slid sideways to massage her temple. Ester’s eyes shifted in my direction, and her expression darkened, brows furrowing.

“How’re you feeling?” I asked, keeping a straight face.

“Like you care,” Ester answered, her groggy voice barely above a whisper. She groaned, sitting up with her back against the wall. “Where am I?”

“In a hospital,” I replied.

She swallowed, eyes scanning the room, a glint of confusion flickering in her gaze. She placed a hand on her belly and rubbed it slowly, her head tilting sideways like she was trying to recall something.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” I asked, adjusting in my chair.

She shaped her mouth, ready to respond, when the door opened and the doctor walked in, clad in his white coat.

“You’re awake,” he said, eyes pinned on Ester. “That’s good.”

She glanced at me, then at the doctor, then back at me again.

“Mr. Tarasov,” Dr. Allen greeted me, extending a hand.

I shook it firmly. “Dr. Allen. How is she?”

He offered a calm, professional smile. “Malnourished and a little dehydrated—nothing the right medication and some rest cannot fix. She’s stable now, physically. They both are.”

“They?” I asked, my brows rising in confusion.

Dr. Allen glanced back at Ester, then at the chart in his hands, before meeting my gaze. “The bloodwork came back. She’s pregnant.”

“What?!” Ester exclaimed, eyes wide with shock.

He hesitated for a second. “It’s still early. About two months. But everything looks normal so far. No complications.”

I was stunned by the news, shocked that Ester was in the family way. The words struck me like a dagger to the chest, leaving me speechless.

“No, no, Doctor, there must have been some kind of a mix-up somewhere—some mistake.” Ester shook her head, voice trembling in fear.

“I’m afraid there’s no mistake, ma’am,” he said, facing her. “You’re with child.”

I stood there, my pulse spiking as a million thoughts tugging at my mind, threatening to rip it to shreds.

Dr. Allen sensed the tension and cleared his throat, ready to dematerialize. “I’ll, uh…I’ll give you two some space.” He walked away.

I did the math; the doctor said she was about two months pregnant, and that was around the same time we slept together in New York. I drew closer to her bed, my eyes fixed on hers, even though she was suddenly avoiding my gaze. “Is it mine?” I asked.

Her jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Ester, is the baby mine?” I repeated, my voice a little louder than normal.

She still didn’t respond.

Her silence, the fear in her countenance, the panic—they all told me the answer I was searching for.

My heart sank into my stomach, my mind reeling with a dozen possible outcomes of this situation.

This was bad. Terrible on so many levels.

My plan’s gone to shit now—all of it. This baby had changed everything, complicated the whole scenario, and now I was left with the burden of reconfiguring my plans.

What the fuck have I done?

She raised her head and met my gaze. “Now what?” The confusion in her eyes and the fear in her voice were palpable.

Ester had every right to worry—to be afraid. This was a sticky situation. A very sticky one.

Wait a minute.

Every cloud, they say, has a silver lining.

I could still salvage the situation and make it work in my favor. A light bulb lit up in my head, and my lips curled into a self-satisfied grin. “You belong to me now, Ester. I own you all the way.”

A mix of fear and anger flashed in her eyes at the same time. But I couldn’t care less. I had the perfect plan all worked out.