Page 11 of Watched and Bred by the Bratva (Bred by the Bratva #7)
I kept my word.
For months, I never pried. Never followed Zara into the ultrasound office or hacked her files when it would have been so damned easy.
My woman wanted the surprise, and I gave it to her.
But that didn’t stop me from running surveillance on every test, every ultrasound, every report—just to be sure my child was perfect. Healthy. Strong.
When I pressed Dimitri for the answer, he just laughed and shook his head.
“Amani won’t crack,” he said, looking half-annoyed, half-amused. “I tried everything. Bribery. Threats. Torture. If she’d beg me for mercy, I might’ve had half a chance. But she didn’t.” His wicked grin pulled wide. “Almost wish the party weren’t today, just so I could keep torturing her.”
Maxim groans into his drink. “Enough. You people are making me nauseous.”
Laughter rolls across the table. I clap my cousin’s back hard enough to nearly slosh his whiskey. “Your turn is coming, brat. And God willing, I’ll be there to watch you suffer every minute of it.”
He scowls, muttering something about hell freezing first.
The ballroom gleams around us, bathed in golden light.
I’d rented the entire hotel floor, spared nothing.
Crystal chandeliers scatter the glow across towering floral arrangements, a cake three tiers high, champagne pyramids.
Zara deserved the best, and nothing would be too much for the woman who gave me life itself.
Her mother sits near the front table, fresh from a Mediterranean cruise with her husband, cheeks sunburned, eyes warm with happiness. I don’t think I’ve thanked her enough. For believing Zara. For protecting her. For keeping that bastard away even when too many mothers would look the other way.
“Whatever you want, you’ll have it,” I’d whispered to her earlier. “You saved her for me. I can’t put a price on that.”
She’d touched my arm softly, smiling. “That was my job. To lay down my life for my daughter.”
“Now it’s mine,” I answered.
She’d only smiled again, thinking me nothing more than a sharp Russian businessman moving money in and out of ports.
Zara’s cover story: imports, exports. Even now, amidst chandeliers and champagne, Rose has no idea how many bodies paved the road her daughter walks.
That’s fine. It’s better she never knows.
Laura, one of Zara’s old college friends, lingers by the champagne fountain with wide eyes. She’s dressed carefully, clearly stunned at the wealth splashed across the room, at Zara’s glittering diamond ring. A brand-new teacher. Fresh out of school, wide-eyed and star-struck.
Her gaze keeps darting. Not at the chandeliers—at Maxim.
Max sits back with his drink, restless wolf in an expensive suit. His expression says everything about how little he wants to be trapped here in shiny civilization. His eyes catch hers once, bored, then narrow in something darker.
Zara catches me watching him watch her, then nudges my arm with a grin. Her whisper brushes only my ear. “Your cousin’s turning heads tonight.”
Maxim looks up, following the tilt of her chin, and catches Laura staring. His mouth twists, bored and irritated. “The little mouse?” he asks. “No, thank you,” he mutters, low but clear enough for us to hear.
Zara hides a laugh behind her glass.
Maxim tips back his whiskey, grimacing. “Give me a woman who knows what to do in the bedroom. I’ll leave the virgins to you two sentimental idiots.”
Dimitri chokes on his drink. I can’t help but laugh, clapping my cousin’s shoulder with mock cheer. “Careful, Max. When it’s your turn, I hope I’m here to see it.”
He scowls, muttering darkly. “Not fucking happening.”
But the way Laura keeps sneaking little glances… Zara and I both know the universe is already laughing at him.
The laughter around our table simmers as Amani rises from her seat, clinking her glass for attention. She smiles at Zara like they share the world’s sweetest secret.
“Are you ready?” she asks, voice pitched for drama.
Zara’s cheeks flush, bright with nerves. “I think so.”
Servers wheel out a gleaming cake on a silver cart, three tiers of white fondant wrapped in ribbons of blue and gold. Applause breaks out as it’s rolled into the center of the ballroom.
My hand finds Zara’s, squeezing tight, greedy for every flicker of her excitement as they hand her the knife.
She hesitates, her eyes sparkling as she looks up at me. “Don’t you dare peek over my shoulder,” she teases.
“As if I haven’t waited months for this exact moment,” I growl back, pulling her close enough that our arms rub as she makes the first slice. My chest is a war drum in my ribs.
The blade cuts through sugar and sponge, steady in her trembling hands. A hush falls. Guests press forward, breath caught. Zara slides out the first piece and—
A gush of blue filling spills against the silver plate.
The room erupts. Applause, cheers, champagne flutes clashing together. Dimitri lets out a holler loud enough to rattle the chandelier. Amani blows Zara a kiss, her eyes wet and laughing.
Zara gasps, one hand flying to her lips before her laugh breaks free and she sways against me. “A boy!” She beams, stunned. “We’re having a son, Kolya.”
I crush her softly to my side, lips against her hair, because if I hold her any tighter I might scare her. Joy claws through my chest so fierce it steals my air.
A boy.
My boy.
For a moment, I can’t speak, can only breathe in her warmth as she clings to me. And every vow I ever made, I make again. Louder. Fiercer. Eternal.
My son will never know hunger. He’ll never know fear. No one will lay a hand on him unless it’s in love. He will be strong enough to guard his sisters, his family. He will be cherished. Never broken, never tested the way I was. I’ll kill the world itself if it dares to try.
I lift Zara’s hand and kiss her knuckles as the noise swells around us. “A son,” I say hoarsely. “Our son.”
She cries into my chest, happy tears trembling down both our cheeks.
At the far table, Maxim throws back his drink and mutters, “God help us. Another Ismailov.” Zara hears it and just laughs harder.
Zara strokes my hair as if she knows I’ll never stop whispering my vows to our son. She shuts her eyes in peace, as we drift contentedly.
“Maxim never came back.”
I grunt. “He was drunk. Better he found a room to pass out in.”
Her lips curve. “Or someone to pass out with.”
I tilt my head up, catch her smirk, and kiss it from her mouth. “Whoever it was, God have mercy on her soul. He won’t.”
She laughs softly, runs her hand through my hair again. But even as she drifts toward sleep, my mind flickers with unease. Maxim gone. Laura gone. A pale dress disappearing past the corridor. Coincidence? Did the mouse stalk the lion?
I press my mouth once more to her stomach.
“Our son first,” I whisper.
“Everything else can burn.”