Page 18 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

I wasn’t being sarcastic when I said I was sorry about what happened to his sister. I really was, because I knew what it was like losing a loved one, the pain, the guilt, and the anger. Listening to him narrate the incident ended up opening my own wound—the wound I long buried.

Maybe this was the reason I felt drawn to him the first time we met at Ink Ritual. We both shared something in common.

Loss.

Our story wasn’t all that different if you thought about it. I lost my mom at the hands of my father—a man I trusted. He lost his sister at the hands of his best friend—a man he trusted.

Perhaps we were more alike than we thought.

That incident changed him, changed his view of life, turned him into this ruthless monster.

The same way losing my mother messed with my head and planted the seed of hatred in my heart toward my father.

For a long time, I resented him for what he did, and up until now, I’d yet to let go.

I couldn’t see that ever happening anyway.

I’d spent a few days here, under Yulian’s care and protection. And despite myself, the cold hostility I clung to at first was starting to thaw. Just a little bit.

I hated it.

I hated that I was beginning to get used to this place, this environment.

I hated that the walls had seemed to stop closing in on me, that the entire mansion no longer seemed like a prison.

The air that was once so toxic was now filled with the aroma of delicious meals from the kitchen and the scent of fresh flowers from the garden.

When I moved, the guards or the maids around would bow their heads in reverence like I was the queen of this castle. They were nice to me—all of them, maids and guards alike. Including the three guys with a grudge against me: Andrea, Viktor, and Ilya. The victims of my fury.

Andrea was the man I kicked in the nuts; Viktor was the one whose nose I broke the night they both kidnapped me. And Ilya, well, he was the guard whose face I clawed my nails into down in the basement.

Strange how I memorized their names now, how they were the closest to me out of all the guards. They smiled at me more than the others. Not some half-baked plastic grin to mask their true intentions. No. Real, genuine smiles. Same as the maids.

Sometimes, I wondered if this was an alternate version of the same mansion from a week ago.

And then there’s Yulian, an almost entirely different man altogether. He didn’t talk much; he didn’t have to. However, the look in his eyes each time he was around me was a clear indication that something had changed about him.

For some reason, he would bring my meals himself without sending one of the maids.

And honestly, a huge part of me enjoyed having him around.

Of course, we still fought over stupid things every now and then.

But I enjoyed our banter. I enjoyed getting under his skin and watching his cheeks flare up with anger.

Fighting and cussing each other out became just another Tuesday for us. And it was almost impossible to have a decent conversation without one of us getting on the other’s nerves.

Gradually, I found myself getting used to this place, these people, and the man who stole me to get even with my father.

My father, who had yet to come and find me and save me.

The old man didn’t give a shit about me, didn’t care enough to storm this place and get me out.

But then again, I wasn’t surprised at all.

Yes, Yulian had thrown me into his dungeon at first, but so far, staying here beat living in my father’s mansion.

I shouldn’t be so comfortable with my situation; I should keep trying to find another way out.

But I couldn’t—I didn’t want to. Yulian was right.

I was safer here under his care and protection.

Besides, now that I was carrying his child, there was no place on earth that he wouldn’t find me, even if I ran away.

So, why should I complicate things for myself?

These past few days had been different. Yulian had pulled stunts that I didn’t see coming, and that thawed my heart. He’d been more observant, somehow remembering things I said offhand, barely muttered in passing.

Like the soup.

Minestrone alla genovese.

I’d mentioned it earlier, saying it reminded me of some tiny hole-in-the-wall place my mother and I visited when I was thirteen.

Pesto stirred into the broth, vegetables soft but not soggy, that comforting hit of parmigiano melting in every spoonful. I hadn’t had it in years. Maybe it was the pregnancy that made me crave the soup after all this time, but the thought of it alone made my mouth water.

I didn’t realize how seriously Yulian took the whole soup thing until he brought it in just two days ago. He just set it on my table and left. At first, I thought it was a regular dish prepared by the incredibly great chef. But then, the distinct aroma wafted into my nostrils.

I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was the exact soup I mentioned in passing, and I couldn’t stop staring at the plate. Oh, that warm and herby smell was way too nostalgic. I wasn’t sure what prompted that smile on my face; was it the soup itself, or Yulian’s gesture?

Whatever it was, I was grateful, and I ate that soup down to the very last spoonful.

It didn’t stop there, the surprises and kind gestures.

Next was the cioccolato gelato, which I had said I was craving three days ago. He sent the maids to bring it to my room yesterday. It was intentional—this attention he paid to details.

But why?

What was his endgame here?

Maybe there was no ulterior motive behind these gestures—maybe they were just his own subtle ways of expressing his affection. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched considering how many awkward moments we’d had almost immediately after every banter.

The hidden stares at each other, the growing tension between us, and the teasing comments over silly things all hinted at the elephant in the room. Even after everything, my heart still beat for Yulian—I hated myself for that—but it couldn’t be helped.

I guess it’s true what they say: The heart wants what it wants.

Just last night, the most awkward thing happened; he stopped by my room, and we played cards.

Everything happened so fast and so naturally—the conversation, the game itself, the laughs, and the bickering.

For the first time, we didn’t fight each other.

We didn’t yell or call each other names.

I didn’t accuse him of being heartless and controlling. And he didn’t call me stubborn.

We were just two adults playing cards and having a good time. It’d been a while since I laughed that hard, and to think Yulian was the one who brought out that part of me.

How ironic!

I didn’t realize how much I missed having a normal conversation with him until last night. It was so peaceful, so natural, and I completely forgot my predicament. I wished every day could be like last night. I wished we wouldn’t fight all the time.

Ever since he left my room last night, I hadn’t stopped thinking about him, hadn’t stopped replaying the memory in my head.

If he had waited just a minute longer, we would have ended up in my bed.

That was what I wanted, and the look in his eyes last night was a clear indication that he wanted that too.

We’d come so close, literally inches apart. His breath was warm against my skin, his touch electric. Just one move from him, one kiss, and I would’ve surrendered. My chest was already heaving, my breaths uneven.

I wanted him so badly, but there was also a part of me that was scared of letting him in again. So, when he pulled away and said goodnight, I was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

He turned me on and then left me hanging.

Not cool.

But then again, leaving was the best option at the time.

Was it, though?

Because now, all I did was cook up scenes in my head about how last night could’ve ended if he hadn’t left. The things we’d have done to each other—how rough the sex would’ve been.

It was a lovely thing to imagine.

However, it did little to calm me down; instead, it just fueled my desire and made me crave him even more.

To make matters worse, Yulian had been gone all day. By the time I woke up this morning, I was told that he’d gone to work already and wasn’t back yet.

Strange how I missed having him around, how I counted the hours until his return. I waited like a wife, alone and bored, hoping her husband would come home to her soon.

At sundown, after I’d showered and slipped into my nightgown, I heard a gentle knock on my door. My heart skipped a beat—it was him. It was Yulian. He was home.

I closed the book I was reading, tossed it on the bedside table, and leaped out of bed. I drew a deep breath, smoothed out the faint wrinkles on my dress, and strolled over to the door.

His hand was hanging mid-air when I opened it, my eyes meeting his. My gaze lingered a little longer than it was supposed to, my heart pounding in my chest. His eyes drifted down to my cleavage, a small, almost imperceptible smirk lining the corner of his lips.

He cleared his throat, slipped his hand into his pocket, and said in a smooth, husky voice, “I just wanted to check on you.”

After ditching me for almost the whole day? I thought, then folded my arms across my chest. “Oh, how sweet—want a medal for that?” The sarcasm in my voice was clear as crystal.

“Can you not be a pain in my ass for just one second?” He walked inside, gliding passed me.

“Please, come on in.” Sarcasm. Again.

He chuckled, turning around to face me. “You love this, don’t you? Fighting me every chance you get.”

“You only think that because you’re controlling, and control freaks hate it when someone stands up to them,” I replied, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him.

“Is that what you tell yourself to justify your arrogance?” He asked, eyes shifting across my face and the cleavage flashing before him.