Page 3 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

There was something oddly off about this man, this lean Russian with a muscular frame and icy blue eyes that seemed to stare into my soul. His ash-blond hair, cropped short, caught in the soft light, his clean shave accentuating his angular features.

Darkness, enough to hide a shitload of garbage, was all I saw in those icy blue eyes. Beneath his calm exterior was something monstrous lurking in the stillness—something dangerous. So dangerous it stole my breath and quickened my pulse.

The way he looked at me, stared at me, was both attractive and disturbing at the same time, like he was trying to figure me out. I could sense the darkness around him. And not just because he was probably a Bratva leader based on his style and level of sophistication.

It takes one to know one.

Everything about him seemed expensive—his impeccably tailored black suit, his shoes, and even the scent of his cologne. The man was clearly no ordinary foot soldier. No. This one was high up the Bratva ranks, and I could almost see the souls of the men he’d sent to an early grave.

Something inside me had snapped the moment I set eyes on him. I knew he was trouble because danger and chaos often followed men like him wherever they went. They usually left death and destruction in their wake, and staying the fuck away from him would probably be the best choice right now.

However, despite the warning bells ringing in my head, the red flags and alarms, I still couldn’t help being drawn to him. A part of me wanted to refuse him on instinct, to come up with an excuse for why I wouldn’t be able to attend to him.

Unfortunately, my brain shut down, leaving me with no thoughts whatsoever.

I closed the distance between us, head arched to catch the blank expression on his face. I could’ve sworn that time stood still in that moment, like a scene straight out of a movie. I locked eyes with this total stranger, his aura—dark and negative—seeming to resonate with mine.

The mystery around him was like a flame, and I was the moth drawn to it.

With each passing second, the silence between us seemed to linger forever, and it was starting to feel super awkward. Gary, the receptionist behind the desk across from us, could sense it too because he wouldn’t take his eyes off both of us.

“You the walk-in?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

He blinked, as if anchoring himself back to the present. Then, he nodded.

“Okay, good.” I cleared my throat, gesturing toward the chair. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

He moved with quiet command, shedding his trench coat and draping it over a hook on the wall.

“So, what do you want inked?” I asked, my voice firm and audacious.

Quietly, he peeled off his jacket, his movement slow and deliberate.

Then, with his fingers, he untucked his white undershirt, a glimpse of his chiseled abs catching my eye.

Next, he loosened his flashy red tie, and while undoing the buttons of his shirt, I looked away, scratching the back of my head.

What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t a damn strip club.

“This,” he said, his deep husky voice drawing my attention back to him.

By now, the top five buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing his broad chest and ridiculously attractive torso. I swallowed, blinking a few times to stay in control.

I traced his finger to the jagged scar that cut across his ribs—a pale, nasty old wound.

“I want you to ink this,” he said, tapping on the scar, his gaze fixed on me.

My eyes roamed his body for a moment, drinking in his muscular frame, marked with more old scars. The man clearly had his fair share of violence. Like I said, dangerous.

“Can you put something over it, make it look like it wasn’t for nothing?” he added, his gaze unwavering.

I hesitated for a while before answering, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Good.” He took the shirt off completely, exposing his great body.

My eyes didn’t miss a thing.

The man was built like a weapon. Not the gym-rat kind of strong, but rather something leaner—more dangerous—like a man who fought to survive, not impress. There was nothing soft in him. Not a single thing.

His broad shoulders led down to a perfectly sculpted chest, marred with old scars—knife wounds, and probably even bullet wounds. His nipples were hard, his abs chiseled, and his torso narrowed to a flat abdomen.

I’d seen all kinds of body builds in men on the job, but this…this one was different. Different in a way that I couldn’t explain, a way that made my heart skip and my breath hitch.

I masked my fascination with motion, reaching for my gloves. I tightened my jaw, praying he wouldn’t see how much effect his body had on me. My expression was still flat, containing the butterflies fluttering in my belly, even though my pulse had other ideas.

He sat on the chair like he owned the place, relaxed, legs slightly apart, with an arm slung over the back. From his posture, it was clear that he was used to being in control. He remained perfectly still, like a predator ready to strike, with those cold blue eyes fixed on me.

I pulled on my gloves with a snap , my gaze shifting from his scar to his face. “Got a design in mind? Or should I freestyle something over it?”

His lips twisted into a small grin. “Surprise me.”

Most people who walked in here usually knew exactly what they wanted drawn on their skins. Others would choose from our catalog if they had nothing in mind. But not this man, obviously. He was the first client ever to ask me to freestyle anything of my choice on their skin.

The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine—low, steady, edged in challenge.

I raised my brows. “You sure about that?”

His silence was cute.

“Alright.”

I pulled out my sketchbook and began a rough outline—sharp, fluid lines that came to me faster than usual. He was a Mafia boss; whatever I’d design on his skin should at least reflect his lifestyle—dangerous, violent, chaotic.

It had to be something bold, elegant but brutal, something that would impress him. My hands moved with expert precision as I drew a double-headed eagle with wings stretching out and demonic claws wrapped around a crown of thorns.

I jerked my head, showing him my sketch, a part of me hoping he appreciated the concept.

He arched his brows. “Not bad.”

The concept was Russian symbolism, just twisted slightly—defiant, regal, like a warning disguised as art.

He met my eyes, and his expression softened ever so slightly, his gaze pinned on me. We stared at each other for an awkwardly long five seconds, the kind that made my heart skip a beat.

Who the hell was this man, and how was he manipulating my emotions without even trying so hard?

My eyes dropped to the floor, a faint grin lining the corners of my lips. I hated myself for being such a little princess around him, one whose silly heart wouldn’t stop racing. It was hard to describe how I felt at the moment. I couldn’t exactly name the feeling coursing through my veins.

His effect on me was both fascinating and alarming at the same fucking time.

It was quite disturbing how the strange man stirred up something in me that I thought I’d buried a long time ago.

The scariest part of it all was how I knew deep down that whatever this was, it was beyond physical attraction.

The man had this evil stench that pulled me in without my consent—this reek of ruthlessness, power, and influence that had me entranced. I was drawn to his darkness, the same darkness that should scare the shit out of me.

Who are you, mister? I thought to myself.

He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch when I transferred the stencil. His breath was steady, those icy blue eyes pinned on me like a hook to a fish. It was almost like he was reading me, studying me.

Somehow, I managed to maintain my blank expression despite the fire he’d started inside me.

Stealing one last glance at him, I picked up my machine and began drawing on his skin.

It was hard to focus with his intoxicating scent invading my senses. Honestly, I’d never met a person who smelled half as good as this man. Damn, his cologne must have cost a fortune.

There was also his bare torso—masculine and insanely sexy. Those chiseled abs, that chest, broad and sculpted, weren’t helping either. It was like staring at the world’s best snack and not being allowed to take a bite.

Goddamn it, Ester. Focus, I urged myself, my gloved hands steady on his thick, warm skin.

I could feel his eyes on me, and that only made it worse. Awkward. Like I didn’t already have enough of him to deal with, now I had to add his lingering gaze to the list.

The air was thick with tension, and the more my fingers moved on his skin, the more difficult it was to breathe. I needed a distraction, something to help mask my anxiety and this stupid emotion swirling within me.

My chest heaved subtly, and although I was doing a pretty good job at concealing my unease, I knew it was only a matter of time before I slipped. I couldn’t have that—I had to do something, anything to ease this suffocating tension.

I always enjoyed working in silence, but not at the expense of my own sanity. Not when the silence was threatening to destroy and rip my mind to shreds.

“So,” I began, attempting to start a conversation. “What’s the story behind the scar?” My eyes glanced up at his face.

He hesitated for a bit, and just before I could take back my words, he answered, “Betrayal. Someone I trusted stabbed me in the…well, in the front.”

I paused for like a semi-second, then continued painting his skin. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” he said, his voice low and even. “It was a long time ago.”

I swallowed subtly, the idea of betrayal cutting close to something buried deep in my own chest.

The more time passed, the more the tension between us grew stronger.

“What’s your name?” he asked, bold and audacious.

“Ester,” I replied without taking my eyes off his skin.

He let the silence stretch on a while longer. “Last name?”

At this moment, I paused just a little, my eyes flicking to his face. He looked at me, waiting for my reply.

“Sharpe,” I answered, my tone flat, a warning not to ask more.

“Ester Sharpe,” he repeated, as if savoring the taste of it as he held my gaze.

“What’s your name?” I asked, breaking eye contact, my fingers getting back to work.

“Yulian.”

“Last name?”

He didn’t answer. Even when I looked up at him, he remained silent, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.

“Great,” I mumbled under my breath.

My eyes narrowed on a complex path along his skin, my machine tracing with expert precision.

“So tell me, Ester,” he began. “Why tattooing? Doesn’t exactly scream safe career.”

Neither does the Bratva, but here we are, I thought, keeping my eyes on the lines I was tracing. “Let’s just say I like…leaving marks that mean something.”

He scoffed. “That’s vague, don’t you think?”

“You mean as vague as just Yulian?” I asked, my voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

A soft chuckle fell from his lips. “Fair enough,” he murmured. “Do you always dodge questions?”

“Do you always ask so many?” I shot back, my eyes fixed on his skin.

He shrugged his shoulders, calm. “Only when I’m interested.”

Charming.

It took everything in me to suppress the smile breaking through my lips. I couldn’t let him notice it—the slight crack in the wall.

When I leaned in to fill the fiber lines, his eyes dropped to my lips, bold and intentional. I caught the smirk on his face, but I pretended to be oblivious to the growing tension between us.

His gaze was seductive, a glint of passion dancing in his eyes, and he didn’t bother hiding it.

Minutes passed, and then finally, I gently wiped the tattoo, revealing the permanent mark I left on his ribcage. “And…done.” I straightened, stripping off the gloves.

He didn’t move at first, just stared down at the art, admiring it. Yulian rose from the chair, helped himself with a hand mirror from the nearby table, and observed my work. His eyes squinted ever so slightly. “I gotta admit, I’m impressed. The details are remarkable.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound modest.

He paused for a second, his gaze lingering on me. “Let me take you out,” he declared, his voice dripping with confidence.

I arched my brows, shock flickering in my gaze. “You know, most men would rephrase that and make it sound more like a question.”

“Most men lack the conviction that I have,” he replied, standing tall, broad, and still far too composed.

My lips twisted into a sly grin. His level of confidence was off the charts. Or was it arrogance? I couldn’t tell. But I did like it. “I think you mistake pride for conviction, Yulian,” I said, my expression softening against my will.

“And you, Ester, mistake self-worth for pride,” he answered, taking a step closer.

“I take it you’re not the kind to lose an argument,” I said, admiration creeping into my tone.

“I didn’t realize we were arguing,” he said, pausing, his eyes boring into mine. “I was just proposing to take you out.”

I crossed my arms across my chest, intrigued by his classy resilience. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet,” he said, his lips curling into a small smirk. “But I want to.”

The way he said those words—calm and collected—somehow melted my heart. This wasn’t the voice of an arrogant man. No. It was that of someone who knew exactly what he wanted and was going for it.

“You’re not gonna give up, are you?” I raised a brow, watching the determination flickering in his eyes.

“Not by a long shot,” he answered, still holding my gaze.

I drew a deep, long breath, giving in with a wry smile. “You strike a hard bargain.”

“What can I say? I am , after all, a businessman,” he said, mirroring my grin.

“Really, what kind of business?” I pushed a little bit more.

“Go out with me, and I just might tell you all about it,” came his response.

I shook my head, eyes dropping to the floor. My lips pursed, and my heart raced like a galloping horse. Then, after giving it a thought, I lifted my eyes and met his gaze. “Fine. When and where?”

A self-satisfied smirk flashed across his face.