Page 31 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

It had been almost eight weeks since Maria’s birth—eight weeks since she tore through my vagina with an unimaginable pain. Childbirth was one thing; raising an infant was an entirely different thing on its own. Not to mention the aches and the sores that still lingered from that fateful night.

These past two months hadn’t been easy for me—the trauma, the joy, the stress of taking care of an infant. But I wasn’t alone. Thank God.

Olga, the housekeeper, had been most helpful, and with her skillful hands and neat tricks, it was clear that this wasn’t the first baby she’d nurtured. The woman, in her sixties, was still lively and had made it her goal to relieve my stress.

Yulian wasn’t the kind of man who threw around words like “trust” because in his world, trust didn’t exist. It was for the weak and often got men like him in trouble or worse, killed. However, with Olga, it was different. He trusted her wholeheartedly.

For a housekeeper, she sure had a place in my husband’s heart, and that meant that I could trust her with my baby, too. Especially after finding out she was the nanny who nurtured baby Yulian forty years ago.

I was blown away the day she hinted at it. Baby Maria was crying and disturbing the whole house when Olga brought her to our bedroom to be breastfed. While I was at it, she looked at Yulian and said, “You used to make that same face when you were hungry as a baby.”

I was so shocked to hear her say that, and when I looked up at him, he dropped his eyes to the floor, a little embarrassed. He joked about Olga not spilling more than she should. Oh, but no, I wouldn’t have it. So, I asked for all the details about baby Yulian that she could remember.

Olga gladly obliged, as if she’d been waiting ages to tell his story. My husband had to leave the bedroom for the two to gossip in peace. Olga turned out to be the oldest steward at the mansion, the most loyal and trustworthy.

The woman had dedicated more than forty years of her life serving the Tarasov family—that kind of loyalty wasn’t easy to come by. She was the only one who knew my husband better than I did. At least for now, anyway.

When Olga was eighteen, her entire family was murdered when her village was raided by some Mafia men.

It was Yulian’s father who found her under a bridge one evening, eating from the trash.

According to Olga, she wasn’t sure what exactly touched the man’s heart, but he ordered his driver to pull over, and he stepped out of the car.

Yulian’s father saved her from the streets, clothed her, fed her, and gave her a roof over her head. When she was steady, he asked what happened, why she was eating from the trash, and she told about the men who killed her family.

It turned out that those fuckers were enemies of the Tarasovs, too. For her sake, Yulian’s father tracked down and killed every last member of that gang. He left none alive—wiped out the entire clan overnight. That was how powerful the man was.

After that, he gave her a choice: to stay and work for the family, or to walk away and start her life anew, fully funded by him. Olga felt indebted to Tarasovs for what they’d done for her. No one forced her to stay.

She chose to do so of her own free will. Besides, Yulian’s mother was heavily pregnant with him at the time, and his older brother, Sergei, was just two years old. So, she made her choice.

When both brothers came of age and parted ways, leaving their father’s house to build their own lives around the family business, Olga chose to leave with Yulian. She followed him to Chicago and had ever since been like a mother to him.

It didn’t matter what anyone thought about the Tarasov Bratva—didn’t matter that the whole world saw them as monsters. To Olga, they were the best people anyone could have around them. She practically regarded them as angels.

Of course, she wasn’t ignorant about their family business and how extreme their methods could be at times.

But Olga was certain that Tarasovs, especially Yulian, would never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.

None of his victims were innocent; they were all monsters who’d done terrible and horrible things.

She was right. My husband was no saint. But he had rules—strict rules that kept him in line. He was into a lot of bad stuff—shady businesses that could land him in prison. But at least he wasn’t a hypocrite like the men in high places and government officials he had on his payroll.

Thanks to Olga, I learned some pretty interesting things about my husband—the good, the bad, and the ugly. She didn’t hold back on anything; she told me everything she knew.

What could I say? It was impossible not to love him even more.

He was an apex predator, a defender of his own, one who’d rather watch the world burn than let anything bad happen to his loved ones.

That was the man I married—the man I loved and adored with all my heart. He was my husband, the father of our child, and the protector of our home.

I was proud to be his wife, his partner in every way of the word.

By the end of my postpartum period—almost eight weeks—my body was mostly healed, both inside and out. Now, my hormones were all over the place, my hunger and desire for my husband returning double fold.

He’d been patient enough despite the longing I always saw in his eyes. According to Olga and the family doctor, it was safe to resume sexual activity with my husband.

About time.

The man was starving already; we both were.

***

It was late evening when I stood in the nursery, singing baby Maria to sleep—an old Italian lullaby my mother used to sing to me as a child. Worked all the time. And seeing how peaceful our little girl was in my arms, I’d say it hasn’t lost its charm.

Quietly, I lowered her into the crib assembled by her father. “Sleep well, my little angel,” I murmured, tapping her tiny nose.

I kissed her forehead and then straightened, a radiant smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

“She’s not gonna vanish, you know.” Yulian’s gentle voice came from behind me.

I turned around, and there he was, leaning against the door with arms across his chest. He was shirtless, the soft light highlighting his athletic frame, his icy blue eyes pinned on me.

“I know.” I cleared my throat, a flutter rising in my chest, my finger reflexively scratching the back of my head. “Just, uh…just making sure.”

My gaze swept over his masculine body, drinking in the details of his chiseled abs and the scars that mapped his thick skin. In the depths of his eyes was a glint of desire, the same glint that’d been flickering in his gaze for the past week or two.

Yulian watched me in silence, letting his eyes do the talking, the mild seduction. His lips looked succulent tonight, and beneath the fabric of his joggers was the faint print of his boner. He was turned on but wouldn’t say a word.

The scent of cologne, with traces of shampoo and soap, filled the air in the room, hinting that he’d just taken a shower.

He jerked his brows at my previous statement, a look of disbelief settling on his face. “You’re making sure that she’s not gonna vanish?”

“Well, it sounds ridiculous now that you put it like that,” I replied, smoothing out the faint wrinkles in my nightgown.

He drew closer, his footsteps slow and measured. I didn’t know why, but my heart wouldn’t stop racing, and my pulse was spiking. It was almost the same feeling I felt the very first night we were together—anxious and a bit scared.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he said, halting in front of me, his hand pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s a mother’s love.” His fresh breath brushed against my face, his touch igniting a flame within me. “I hear no other kind of love beats it.”

I placed my hands on his torso, fingers slowly tracing the outline of his broad chest. His cologne wrapped around me like soft silk—nice and sweet. “What did you hear?” I whispered under my breath, my eyes jerking to meet his.

“Stories,” he said, arms around my waist. “Stories of mothers lifting cars to save their children, the power of a mother’s love.”

“You think my love is strong enough to lift a car?” I asked, holding his gaze, his heart beating steadily beneath my palm.

“I think your love is strong enough to stop a moving train,” he answered.

A soft chuckle burst from my lips, my cheeks flushing at his remark. “Okay, now that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it, though?” His voice, thick and husky, stirred up something sexual in me.

I felt it brushing gently against my thigh—his erection—and it felt so good. It was a subtle reminder of all the crazy things he could do to me—the number of times he could make me come.

Yulian’s seduction was working. It was subtle but effective.

In the stillness of the moment, it was just the three of us—my husband and I and the sleeping child. His warmth enveloped me, his protective and possessive arms wrapping around me like a blanket.

He kissed my forehead and pulled away slowly, his withdrawal accentuating my desire. I stood beside the crib, my chest rising and falling with quiet breaths as I stared deeply into his eyes. He didn’t have to say a word; his countenance and erection already sent the message.

He wanted me as much as I wanted him.

I kissed our baby’s forehead one last time before heading out of the nursery. Together, we stepped out after flicking the lights off. Hand in hand, we strolled back to our master bedroom in silence, each one passing hidden glances at the other.

The sexual tension between us was off the charts, and my heart wouldn’t stop hammering, pounding like a frigging drum.

Once inside, he made his way to the bed and sat on the edge, then lifted his head. Our eyes met, and I could see the intense passion burning just beneath the surface.

“Lemme take a shower,” I said, my voice soft and tender.

“Sure.” He cleared his throat, rubbing his palms along the fabric of his joggers. “Of course.”