Page 27 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

“Hmm.” I stroked my chin, my eyes fixed on the sealed box sitting in the middle of the nursery.

The damn thing was covered in vague diagrams and overconfident slogans that promised easy assembly in less than thirty minutes.

Lies!

“I swear, it looked smaller online,” I mumbled, eyeing the box like it had offended me personally.

Yulian stood across from me, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a faint scowl on his face, box cutter in hand. He glared at the instructions with furrowing brows like they’d insulted his intelligence.

“Think you can handle that?” I asked, lowering myself carefully onto a nearby sofa, one hand on my arching lower back, the other cradling the underside of my belly.

Yulian squatted beside the box. “I’ve put together weapons-grade surveillance drones, dismantled and assembled guns in a matter of seconds,” he bragged, slicing the tape. “How hard can a wooden baby cage be?”

“You primitive being,” I teased, adjusting the pillow behind me. “It’s called a crib. Not a cage.”

He shot a quick glance at me, brows rising. “Have you seen the size of this thing?”

A soft breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan left my lips. I was in pain—my back hurt, my ankles ached, and my ribs were sore from the baby’s constant kicks. Not to mention, I hadn’t slept properly in what felt like an eternity.

I was heavier these days, slower—fuckin’ tired all the time—and even the smallest things upset me. The simple acts of walking around or sitting upright had become—well, not so simple anymore. They were like friggin’ Olympic events. Too tasking. Too daunting.

One of the good things about this new development was Yulian’s mature response to my drama. I may or may not have been a little too overbearing during that period. I snapped at him at every chance I got, complained excessively when things weren’t going as I wanted.

Sometimes, I even cried because the toast was too crispy or there wasn’t enough garlic in my food. I’d get upset over trivial things, waking up at odd hours and craving junk food like burritos or hamburgers.

Yet, despite all of this crazy behavior, Yulian never raised his voice at me, never yelled or told me just how unbearable I was. He would just listen to my rants and get me whatever it was that I wanted. No judgment. No questions asked.

In his own way, he was somewhat sweet and very understanding. Yulian rolled with every punch my hormones threw—he didn’t bat an eye at my emotional outburst. No. He just took all my craziness in stride, held steady even when I was one mood swing away from burning the house down.

If patience were a person, it’d be my husband. And I was proud of the man he was becoming—gentle, sweet, and kind. He was like that only for me, of course. To the outside world, he was still the same ruthless Mafia boss they knew him to be.

Watching him right now, frowning at a set of cartoonish instructions, melted my heart like.

Kneeling beside the box, he lay down wooden pieces like weapons for battle, a finger scratching the back of his head. “Screw A goes into Panel C, using Bolt F—and the fuck’s a hex nut?” He spread out his arms, a glint of frustration creeping into his tone.

I couldn’t help the laughs bursting from my lips: raw, full, and rich.

He raised his head, meeting my gaze, a playful scowl settling on his face. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, but it is,” I replied amidst chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “Because just about five minutes ago, you were bragging about how you’ve assembled guns and put together weapons-grade surveillance drones in under sixty seconds.”

He paused, cocking his head sideways. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little.” I shrugged, retaining the smile on my face. “Look at you: You’re sweating already, and you haven’t even picked up a screwdriver.”

“I’m assessing the situation,” he said, his tone defensive.

“That’s one way to put it,” I muttered, teasing him. “Need a hand?”

“No offense, but you can barely even stand,” he said.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t supervise.”

He drew a deep breath. “Fine.”

I wiggled my brows, my smile broadening. I supervised—pointing when he reached for the wrong bolt, handing him screws from the table beside me. I didn’t stop there; I dropped sarcastic commentary every now and then, laughing when he made a mistake.

He would just grunt and roll his eyes through most of it.

My eyes caught one piece that didn’t align correctly—another to torment him. “There.” I pointed. “You should probably fix that.”

His scowl deepened. But I didn’t care. In fact, I loved it—I loved getting under his skin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Maybe you should be nicer to the crib. I think it senses your hostility.”

He scratched his head, staring at the box. “That piece is backward,” he growled, a hint of frustration in his tone. “Fuck it, I think the crib’s just as confused as I am.”

“So, lemme see if I get this straight,” I began, my voice light but sarcastic. “You can dismantle and assemble weapons, but can’t fix a ‘baby cage’?”

“Just shut up,” he mumbled under his breath.

I laughed again, basking in his frustration. It felt good, like old times.

At long last, the final slot clicked into place, and he sat back on his heels, setting down the screwdriver beside him. “There. Done.” He gestured at the hand-crafted crib, wiping sawdust off his hands with exaggerated pride. “What do you think?” He stole a glance at me.

Naturally, I couldn’t resist a jab—I had to stir the pot a little. “I think it’ll probably collapse in two days,” I answered with a smirk.

Yulian straightened and glanced at me. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll remember that next you need something put together in the middle of the night.”

Mission accomplished.

I laughed, reclined in my chair, hands on my belly, feeling the baby shifting beneath my palm. “But seriously, though,” I said, my voice trailing off, laced with a tinge of solemnity. “Thank you. This means the world to me.”

His lips curled into a smile as he approached me, planting a kiss on my forehead. “You don’t have to thank me. I’d do anything for you.”

***

I lay under the sheet that night, trying to sleep. But each time I closed my eyes and snoozed for about five minutes, the baby would kick, forcing me awake again. And it didn’t help that Yulian wasn’t in bed tonight.

My fingers rubbed my eyes, and I turned to the other side of the bed. I spotted a figure standing by the balcony, their back to the room, with a lit cigar in their hand. It was him. It was Yulian.

I groaned softly and struggled for a moment to get out of my bed. My fingers combed through my hair, my back aching as I rose to my feet. Carefully, I padded barefoot across the room, my black nightgown brushing against my ankles.

Yulian stood outside, his gaze across the horizon, elbows leaning against the polished railing. He was stripped from waist upward, his rigid frame and broad shoulders outlined by the moon’s ethereal glow. A thin thread of smoke curled around his head, a stick of cigar burning between his fingers.

I stopped by the doorway, my hand rubbing my belly, eyes fixed on this ridiculously attractive man. Strong. Quiet. As protective as he was dangerous. My heart warmed just looking at him, recalling how far we’d come together.

He dragged on his cigar, released another puff of smoke, and without turning to look at me, he said, “You should be in bed.”

I wasn’t sure how he knew I was behind him, considering how silently I moved. But then again, the man was a freaking trained assassin. He must’ve picked up my scent or something.

“Can’t sleep,” I answered, stepping outside, the cool night air brushing against my face.

He took one last drag, stubbed the cigar out, and tossed it over the railing. Then, he turned and looked at me, his expression softening as it swept over my tired eyes. “You okay?” He stepped forward, taking my hands, his voice calm and therapeutic.

I nodded, jerking my head to look up at him.

He placed his hand gently on my belly, his lips twisting into a sly grin. “How’s our girl doing?”

“She’s the reason I can’t sleep.” A playful frown etched my face. “She won’t stop kicking—it’s like she’s made it her life’s mission to make me feel miserable.” The words came out in a rush, laced with frustration.

A sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

My playful scowl deepened. “Jerk.” I slammed my fist against his chest.

He held me close. “Perhaps you should be a little nicer to the baby’s daddy, and maybe—just maybe—she might consider going easy on you.”

“So, you’re conniving with our unborn baby now, is that it?” I hit his chest again, pursing my lips together to keep a chuckle from breaking free. “We’re supposed to be a team—you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Come on, don’t be jealous,” he said, his thumbs grazing over my cheeks, his forehead resting on mine. “There are no sides here. Only family.” His breath brushed against my face, his voice a low whisper.

Cradling my face in his palms, he leaned in and claimed my lips. Slow and steady. I felt a shiver sprint down my spine, the air electric with tension. Heads turned, tongues slid into our mouths, and our hands were all over each other.

The kiss was fervent.

Unhurried.

Magnetic.

Before things would sprawl out of control, he let the kiss fade, his lips parting from mine. Yulian held me close like I might vanish if he let go. His hand smoothed my hair down, my head resting on his chest.

We stood still under the moon’s silver glow, our hearts and souls intertwined.