Page 1 of Watched and Bred by the Bratva (Bred by the Bratva #7)

F inally, the screen flickers to life. Took Maxim long enough. Two weeks to buy the damn fertility clinic, two weeks to get the feed in place, and I still have no idea what my girl’s been up to.

My girl.

She doesn’t know she’s mine yet. She won’t—not as long as I keep watching from the shadows like a fucking coward.

Why am I hesitating? She’s too young, too beautiful, too fucking precious. A treasure I could never deserve, never earn.

And yet, I open my laptop, settle into the leather chair in my office.

The lights are on—bright, clean—as if their sterile glow could sanitize what I’m about to do.

My desk gleams from a recent polish, the leather blotter perfectly squared.

The handgun in its holster glints under the lamp light, a shadow reminder of who I am even here, in supposed safety.

I wait for her to speak.

But the doctor speaks first. “Zara, tell me why you’re here today.”

She bites her lip, shifts her hips in the chair. The subtle roll makes me want to pull my gun and shoot the damn doctor in the forehead just for making her uncomfortable. But I need her answer.

She clears her throat, blinking those big, luminous brown eyes—the eyes that undo me every time she looks my way.

“Well… I want to have a child, as you know.” She nods toward the folder on the desk.

“I’ve gone through all of the blood work.

I’m a healthy twenty-two-year-old female, and I’m ready to conceive.

The last step in the process is this interview, where I guess you decide if I’m too crazy to have a baby or not. ”

Another shift in that chair. What I wouldn’t give to have those hips shifting on my lap.

She straightens her spine, meets the doctor’s gaze. “So… yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

The doctor’s professional mask doesn’t slip. She’s probably heard this story before—just not from someone so young, so gorgeous.

“Why not do this the old-fashioned way?” the doctor asks. “You’re young, beautiful. Surely there’s someone who would be willing to father a child with you.”

Me. Me. Me.

I damn near shout at the screen. I’ll father a child with her. No one else even thinks about it.

“I suppose…” she says, biting that lip again.

When she’s mine, I’ll teach her that mouth belongs to me—and to keep it off her lip unless I put something there for her to suck.

“Well, those things take time. Time to form a relationship, build trust. Honestly, boys my age aren’t interested in that. And I get it—we’re all just starting our lives. But I want the one thing I’ve always wanted—a family. Someone to love me, and someone I can love in return.”

The doctor tilts her head. “Did you not feel loved as a child? Is this something you need to address before you bring a child into your life? Children don’t fix those things—you understand that, don’t you, Zara?”

“Yes, of course I understand.” She half-laughs, rolling her eyes. “I had a mother who loved me with all her heart. We have an excellent relationship.”

The doctor waits. So do I.

Finally, she asks, “No relationship with your father then?”

“I had a relationship,” Zara says softly. “But he died when I was seven. And honestly… as the years go by, I struggle to remember all the details of him.”

The doctor nods in sympathy.

What happened? How did her father die? Could I fix it? Bring him back?

I hate seeing her sad. But I know better than anyone—once someone’s in the grave, there’s nothing you can do.

“Is this child going to be a substitute for that missing love?” the doctor asks.

“No.” Zara’s voice steadies. “This child will be loved for who he or she is—wholly, unconditionally, in every possible way.”

We both nod.

“That sounds healthy,” the doctor says. “But it still doesn’t explain why you’re not doing this the traditional way. Some men would gladly give you a baby—and walk away.”

Me.

But I’m not walking away. Hell no.

“Is this driven by something else?”

Zara leans forward, her gaze sharp with a rare fierceness. “I’m just not built that way.”

Dr. Overton’s shoulders tense. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t have sex,” Zara says. “I’ve never had sex.”

My entire body locks. She can’t mean that. Not someone so beautiful, so sharp, so sensual—even pouring coffee behind a counter. How the hell has she gone untouched?

“That’s unusual, but still perfectly normal,” the doctor says. “You’re very young. Don’t be fooled by statistics about teenagers—there are plenty of women who are still virgins at your age.”

“You don’t get it,” Zara cuts in. “They’re waiting for Mr. Right. I’m not. I don’t have sex because I don’t feel things. Boys have tried to touch me, tried to kiss me… nothing.”

The doctor’s brow lifts. “Nothing?”

Zara shakes her head. “Nothing. I’ve always been ice. I’ve never felt fire.”

The doctor studies her. “Usually, that’s tied to some kind of trauma.”

Zara’s lip pulls between her teeth again.

She draws in a breath, releases it slowly.

“When I was thirteen, my mother had a boyfriend… he was interested in me.” Her eyes dart away, then back.

“One night, we were alone in the apartment, and he tried to force himself on me. I fought him off. The neighbors came running when I screamed. My mother had him arrested, but we dropped the case because I didn’t want to see him again.

She got me counseling. I don’t have nightmares or PTSD.

I just have no interest in a man putting his hands on me sexually. That’s my story.”

“I’m very sorry that happened to you,” the doctor says. “I’m glad you’ve made progress. But the last step in fixing that broken puzzle is to open yourself up to other men—”

Me.

“—or women, if that’s your preference,” the doctor continues.

Nope. Not them either.

“Understandably, a lot of women are gun-shy after an experience like yours. But sex can be wonderful, beautiful— something you might enjoy one day. Has there never been even one man to pique your interest?”

Zara’s hands fumble in her lap, but she looks up, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Lately… there is a man. He comes into my coffee shop. When he looks at me, the ice I’ve always felt—it’s not there.

I feel… heat. I’ve never felt that before.

Maybe it’s because he’s quiet, stoic. And I know what you’re thinking—that I’m one of those women only attracted to unavailable or cold men—but when he looks at me, there’s a fire in his eyes.

A fire I only see when he looks at me. I can’t help wondering sometimes…

if he feels it too. But he’s very appropriate.

Orders coffee black, works on his laptop, answers a few calls, then leaves. ”

“Have you tried flirting with him a bit?” Dr. Overton asks.

My fingers clamp around the arms of my chair so hard I’m surprised they don’t splinter. Who is this motherfucker? Because he’s a dead man.

Then her lips shape my name. “Flirt with Nikolai? No. You’d have to know him. He’s not the kind of guy you flirt with. I have no experience, but even I know that. And—oh my God—the humiliation if he wasn’t interested? He doesn’t appear interested.”

Me. She means me. And it’s my name pouring from that mouth.

I’m a puddle. Water seeping into the leather beneath me.

She said my name.

She sealed her fate.

The rest of the interview blurs. My focus pins on her mouth, her eyes, the curve of her shoulders when she leans forward to listen.

At the end, she asks the question that snaps me back. “Did I… pass?”

Dr. Overton laughs softly. “It’s not pass/fail, but if it were—yes, you passed. I believe you’re emotionally healthy.”

She turns off the camcorder, deliberate.

“I also believe you should go out there and flirt with Nikolai. See where this takes you. I don’t think you’ve given yourself enough time.

You’re judging your lack of interest and associating it entirely with the trauma you experienced. But maybe you’re just a late bloomer.

“In my experience, some women simply aren’t interested in the opposite sex until later.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four—it varies.

Society sets a number, and it changes with the culture and the times.

Just because you weren’t chasing boys down the hallway at sixteen doesn’t mean you don’t like boys.

It just means you weren’t interested then.

“If you’re starting to feel that fire, stoke the flames.

Do it the natural way. It’s easier, healthier.

Because once you have a baby, it’s harder to explore that side of yourself—you’ll be busy, drained, working full-time.

Now is the time to explore. See what you like. Enjoy this moment. Don’t let it pass.

“Get Nikolai’s number. Ask him out. What’s the worst thing he could say?”

When the office door closes behind her, I stare at my phone like I expect it to ring any second. Ridiculous. She doesn’t have my number.

She’s not the one with the obsession. She’s not the one who’s installed cameras in every corner of her apartment.

She’s not the one who bought the fertility clinic just to keep tabs on her.

She’s not the one who tracked down every driver on her bus route and promised them—threatened them—that if anything happened to her, something would happen to them. And their families.

So yeah, she probably wonders why her route’s the slowest in the city. Drivers never speed, never risk a rolling stop, never pull away until she’s safely on the corner and walking toward her door.

I spin the pen between my fingers, up and down, up and down.

My Zara.

This is why I’ve held back. She’s too young, too innocent, too untouched. That draws me in and pushes me away in the same breath.

Fucking yo-yo.

I need to walk away. I know it. But I’m not letting her have a baby with someone else. The doctor called this the easy way, the natural way. I could give her that. I want to give her everything. I want to give her a child.

I want to fill her until she’s overflowing, until my seed implants in her womb and her belly swells with our child—my child.

But the reason I want it is the same reason I shouldn’t.

My family is large, loud, and dangerous.

The Ismailovs have always been prolific; we marry young—or at least marry young women—and keep them close, pregnant, and protected. Especially the boys.

My father put a gun in my hand when I was thirteen, pressed the muzzle to a man’s temple, and told me to pull the trigger.

That same year, she was fighting off her mother’s boyfriend.

I will find that bastard and make him pay.

But at thirteen, I became something I can never undo.

They say I didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate.

They say I pulled the trigger and handed the gun back with a single word: “Next.”

I don’t remember it like that. In my head, I was already gone—retreated to a place I still go when I don’t want to feel.

An ice cave. I’ve been there so often I can’t find my way out anymore.

I’ve lived in that frozen maze so long it’s cut me off from my family.

I love them, but I’ll never tell them that.

The day I saw that man’s brains spill across the concrete floor, I learned how easy it is for someone to take everything from you—everything you are, everything you love.

The only antidote is never to get attached.

I wonder what Dr. Overton would tell me about my trauma. How do you come back from something that’s been with you for thirty years? It’s harder to take things from me now, but I still live behind walls. I can protect people from out there. I can’t invite them in.

I go to my cousins’ weddings and feel joy.

I go to their christenings and raise a glass.

I join them on vacations and holidays. But I’m always the one in the corner, watching, not knowing how to truly join in.

Even in the family business, I’m the lone wolf.

The one they send to hunt traitors and make them pay.

That’s my role. I work alone. And I don’t mind killing. Or retrieving. Mostly killing.

Until my cousin Dimitri asked me to meet him at the coffee shop where the woman he was obsessed with worked. I walked in, and something in me cracked. Usually, I do everything I can to rebuild the ice stronger and thicker. But that day, warmth seeped in, and I decided to see where it would go.

So even though that business is over—my cousin Dimitri has his wife now, Amani, and their baby—for the last six months, I keep returning. After every hunt, the wolf comes back to the same den.

I don’t know how to pursue a woman any more than she knows how to pursue a man. I don’t call women. I don’t make dates. I don’t send flowers or candy. If I did, I would do it for her. I know how to fuck. I know how to make a woman scream in ecstasy. But I’ve never made love.

With her, we’ll both be virgins in that way. We’ll make love for the first time. And then I’ll fuck her—hard, deep, until she screams my name.

I am going to give her what she wants. She will have her baby. And I will have her.

This, I swear.