Page 8 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)

It was fun while it lasted. But it’s over now, and I was back to my reality: financial analyst by day, tattoo artist by night. Same old routine every day—nothing new, nothing exciting—just my regular boring life.

A few days had passed since our fancy dinner night and the funky activity that followed soon after. I should be over it by now, the date and the incredible sex. But for some reason, I’d yet to take control of my own thoughts.

It was hard to focus on work, as memories of the previous night flooded my mind every now and then. His touch, the feeling of his skin against mine, his lips against mine, and the masculine scent of his cologne still lingered on the fringes of my mind.

I may have left a mark on his skin, but Yulian that night had left a mark on my soul.

The way he kissed me, slow and passionate, sent tremors down my core.

He took his time with me, exploring my body, whispering in my ears, and tracing my curves.

It was safe to say that Yulian worshipped my body, and when he looked at me, like I was something fragile, I felt butterflies in my belly.

It was strange how he manipulated my emotions and made me desire him more than I ever had anyone or anything before.

My body had given in to him, and he didn’t even need to try hard.

At first, it was embarrassing, and I thought he might think I was cheap.

But no. The man adored me, made love to me, and made me feel like a woman.

He was a real man, one who knew exactly where to touch, when to touch, and how to touch me.

Because of his expertise, I orgasmed multiple times, squirted even, which was strange considering that I rarely squirt.

Yet, this incredibly attractive man made my dam explode with just his fingers and his tongue.

Images of his rigged frame occupied my mind, distracting me from work. My thighs brushed against each other, a gesture prompted by the tingling sensation between my legs. My nipples hardened, my breath was labored, and suddenly, it was hot in here.

I stared at the spreadsheet on my lit monitor, my chest heaving slowly in an attempt to gain control of my thoughts. My heart was starting to race, my pulse quickening as illicit images of us together tugged at my mind.

Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? It was just a one-night stand; it shouldn’t mean anything to me. Right?

Each time my phone chimed or buzzed, I’d rush to check if it was an incoming call or text from him. But every time, I ended up disappointed. It was silly to hope that he’d reach out to me when I knew deep down that I was probably just another woman he’d slept with.

Nothing special about me.

Holding on to a false hope was worse than not having any hope at all. He was cute, we went out, had sex, and now he’d moved on with his life like I never existed, like we never happened. It was high time I let go of this memory that was never meant to last. The sooner I did that, the better for me.

“Earth to Sharpe.” A voice pierced through my thoughts, snapping me back to the present.

I raised my chin, eyes settling on Dean as he towered over me, his tie loose around his neck. He leaned against the edge of my desk, arms across his chest, with a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What?” I asked, my voice flat, my expression darkening.

“Is it a dude?” He wiggled his brows playfully.

“What?” I repeated, tilting my head slightly to the side.

“Come on, you’ve been distracted all day, and that’s unlike you,” he said, holding my gaze.

“You’re such an idiot, Dean,” Jenny chipped in from her desk.

“What’d I do?” He shrugged his shoulders, eyes shifting toward her.

“You assumed that she’s distracted because she’s thinking about a man, like her life revolves around men,” she explained.

He paused, his mouth shaped like an “O” with a finger in the air. “Okay, I did not say that,” his tone was mild but defensive.

“She might be going through a midlife crisis, douchebag. Not everything’s about you men, you know,” Jenny said, reclining in her chair.

“Alright, pumpkin, first, that’s sexist. And second, do you honestly think that I can’t tell the difference between a midlife crisis and a good old heartbreak?” Dean shot back.

“Wait, hold on a second.” Skinny Sam joined in on the conversation, his tone laced with curiosity. “Are you insinuating that someone broke Eater’s heart? Is that even possible?”

“Oh, God. Great,” I murmured to myself, head lowered, fingers rubbing my eyes.

“I think the real question is: Dean, since when did you become an expert in human psychology?” Greg from across the office chipped in.

Yep. That’s how my nosy colleagues noticed my odd behavior and talked about me as if I wasn’t right there with them. I gotta admit, though, it was funny watching them debate my feelings and argue over what they thought about me.

As wild as Dean’s speculation was, there was a glint of truth in his assumption. I was distracted because of a man, and maybe that weak, vulnerable part of me was heartbroken that I’d never see Yulian again.

***

Tonight, my apartment smelled like buttery popcorn mixed with the faintest trace of jasmine from a half-burned candle on the windowsill. On the floor, a half-empty box of pizza, along with a pile of wrappers from our favorite snack binge, sat between Leona and me.

She was here for moral support, to offer her shoulder and a few words of comfort.

Except Leona West wasn’t exactly the mushy type or the kind of friend who tiptoed around your feelings, careful not to hurt them.

The girl was blunt, unapologetically so.

If something needed saying, you could be damn sure that she’d say it—whether you were ready to hear it or not.

I was seated on the floor, my back against the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands. Leona sat beside me, her long red hair flowing over her shoulders like a river of blood. “Oh, come on, how’s that fair?!” she yelled at the TV, eyes fixed on the characters from the show we were watching.

More like she was watching because I’d zoned out minutes ago.

“Can you believe I didn’t get his name?” I scoffed, gazing at the TV.

She glanced in my direction, her green eyes pinned on me. “Really? This again? I thought we were over this emotional whiplash of yours.” She stared at me a while longer before taking another bite of the pizza slice in her hand.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who got ghosted,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. In all honesty, I didn’t mean to say that out loud; the words just fell out of my mouth.

“Ghosted? Are you kidding me?” she asked with her mouth full. “It was a one-night stand, girl. Nothing more.” Leona wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “So what if the sex was great? Life goes on. You should, too.”

I heaved a sigh, my gaze absently fixed on the characters on TV.

“Hang on a second,” she said, staring at me. Her head tilted to the side, and a suspicious look crossed her face.

“What?” I asked casually, curious as to why those green eyes battled mine.

“You’re really hung up on this guy, aren’t you?” she questioned, her lips curling into a mocking smile. “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before. Ever. Especially not a one-night stand.” A chuckle left her lips. “Damn, he must’ve been really good.”

“You have no idea,” I murmured.

Once again, that wasn’t meant to come out. But it did, with a voice filled with enthusiasm.

Her brows rose in astonishment, her smile broadening. “Wow! He did leave a mark on you.”

“He still hasn’t called, you know,” I said, my eyes reflexively flickering to my phone’s screen.

She stared at me in silence, chewing slowly.

“Alright, listen to me, princess,” she began, her tone a little sharper than I would’ve liked.

“You had a great time with Prince Charming—hell, maybe even did some mind-blowing, probably not-so-creepy stuff together. But guess what? It’s over now. He’s gone.”

I cocked my head to the side. “Is there a version of you out there that’s not so friggin’ blunt all the time?”

She took another slice from the box. “I hope not.”

I scoffed and shook my head, helping myself with a slice. Leona was right, as always. It was useless to rant about Yulian’s Olympic-level ghosting. What happened between us was nothing more than a one-night stand. He was gone now, back to his world, to his life.

It was time for me to do the same.

Leona was right. Hot guys with scars are the worst.

We spent the rest of the evening watching her favorite TV show, chattering, and laughing. Leona had this subtle way of making my life much easier without breaking a sweat. And I loved her for that and many more things.

About thirty minutes after she left my place, I was still curled up on my couch, scrolling through social media, when I heard a knock at my door. I paused, eyes darting toward the entrance, my face a mask of suspicion.

I glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost 11:30 p.m., and I wasn’t expecting anybody after Leona.

My life was super private, and everyone at where I worked knew just how closed off I was with people.

I didn’t have any friends except for Leona, and she was the only person who ever came visiting, mostly because she was the only one who knew where I lived.

Did she forget something?

I looked around my living room, but there was nothing here that was hers. Besides, even if she did leave something behind, she would’ve called and told me she’d come pick it up some other time. Or suggest that I drop by her place tomorrow to return it.

That being said, whoever was outside my door was definitely not Leona.

I heard it again, the knock. Soft, gentle. Nothing that screamed trouble.

All my senses came alive at the same time, and slowly I rose to my feet. I looked out the window for any sketchy movements, but it was quiet outside. Maybe too quiet even. My jaw tightened, my pulse quickening as I made my way to the kitchen and picked up a knife.

A part of me wanted to believe that whoever was outside my door was probably just a neighbor or some homeless guy getting bored. But that cynical part that had kept me safe this entire time wouldn’t buy that thought.

Something was off. I could feel it.

With the knife gripped firmly behind my back, I crept toward the door, my bare feet barely making a sound against the floor.

The stranger knocked again, and I swallowed hard before reaching for the door handle. Gently, I pulled the door slightly open, my grip tightening around the handle.

Three men in black suits stood outside my porch, cold and watchful. My eyes narrowed, my jaw tightening as I recognized them from the life I had long left behind.

Shit. If they’re here, that means trouble isn’t too far behind.

“Hello, Miss Moretti,” one of them said, his voice deep and gruff. “It’s time.”

Franco. One of my father’s most hardened criminals. I’d recognize that face and that signature snake tattoo of his any time, any day.

He looked a little different with the bandage on his nose and the black eye. Someone had roughed him up real good.

However, his new look was the least of my problems right now. Their presence here only meant that my father had sent them. And if that were the case, then I had no choice but to run. Again.

I slammed the door in their faces and rushed back inside, my heart racing in my chest. They kicked the door open and barged in, their heavy footsteps pounding behind me.

“Stop, Miss Moretti, we’re not here to hurt you,” Franco said, halting a few paces in front of me, arms stretched out.

The other two stepped forward like demon meatsuits, faces blank and flat.

“Stay back!” I warned, holding up the knife with a defensive stance. “I know how to use this, and I swear to God, I will not hesitate to do so.”

They stopped in their tracks, stealing a glance back at Franco. He nodded subtly, and they withdrew from me.

“Listen, kid,” Franco began, his expression softening ever so slightly as if attempting to buy my trust. “There’s a secret war going on right now, and it’s not safe for anyone with the Moretti last name.”

“Newsflash, I dumped that name a long time ago. I’m Ester Sharpe now,” I replied, standing my ground, defensive and ready to use that knife.

“You can change your identity, but you can’t change your blood, kid,” he said, taking cautious steps forward. “Sooner or later, those bastards are gonna find you. And your father can’t have that.”

“Well, tell my father that I don’t need his protection. He never cared before. Why start now?”

“Don’t be stubborn, kid, you’re in real danger,” he said through gritted teeth, frustration creeping into his tone. “If anyone finds out you’re a Moretti, you’re as good as dead.”

I hesitated for a second. “Yeah, I’ll take my chances alone out there.”

And with that, I bolted.

I heard Franco yell behind me, but it was too late.

I shielded my face behind my hand, shoulders slamming hard into the window.

Around me, the glass exploded in a storm of shattering shards as adrenaline roared in my ear.

I flew through the frame, the night air slapping against my face as I twisted midair.

Seconds later, I landed with a reckless thud on the ground outside, and momentum carried me into a messy somersault. Pieces of broken glass crunched beneath me, stinging my flesh. But that pain was nothing compared to how I’d feel if they returned me to my father’s.

Like a friggin’ ninja, I rolled clean to my feet and took off into the darkness without looking back.

I ran like hell, and those relentless mutts chased after me. I didn’t stop. I kept running until I made it to the nearest subway station, hoping to lose them in the crowd.

The station buzzed with noise and motion—blaring announcements, rumbling trains, and bodies weaving in every direction. I paused to catch my breath, nervously glancing over my shoulder.

Pushing through the crowd, my heart raced in my chest, and sweat clung to my spine. I just needed to disappear—fade into the blur of strangers and steel before my father’s goons could catch up with me.

And then, out of nowhere, a hand grabbed my wrist from behind, strong and relentless. A gasp escaped my lips, and my breath caught in my throat. Spinning around, I came face to face with Franco, his cold eyes staring into mine.

“Don’t resist,” he said, too calm for a man who’d been chasing me through the city. “It’s time to come home.”

My throat tightened as I swallowed hard, my blood running cold.