Page 52 of The Bratva Bosses' Surrogate

“I started from scratch,” she says softly, pulling at a loose thread on her shirt sleeve, showing her nervousness. “Every morning when I woke up, it was like my head was under water, but eventually, it got easier.”

My fingers instinctively curl into fists at my side; the thought of someone else touching her, hurting her. it makes me want to hurt them back twice as hard.

“Turns out you can run from your past,” she says softly.

“Can you now?” I can’t help but quirk an eyebrow at that. The idea of running from your past is foreign to me. In the Bratva, your past is your identity; it’s in the blood you spill and the scars etched onto your skin.

She shakes her head delicately. “Not yet.”

The thought of her leaving, taking the baby and stepping away from this life we’ve entangled her in, it gnaws at me. I can’t fucking stand it. The mere idea sends a sharp pang through my chest.

But then, there’s the harsh, unyielding truth that whispers in the back of my mind – it might be the safest option for her. This world, my world, it’s no place for innocence, for something as pure as the new life she’s carrying. Every day is a gamble with death, every decision a dance with danger. Can I, in good conscience, bind her to this existence?

I reach out and grip her hand, making sure I have her attention. “No one’s going to hurt you again. Not while I’m still breathing.”

Her glassy eyes flit to mine, startled by the intensity of my declaration. But she needs to understand. She needs to know just how far I’d go for her.

“I may have blood on my hands, sweetheart, but I’d fucking spill rivers if it meant keeping you safe.”

I let go and lean back. I pull out a cigarette and flick my lighter. I draw in a deep breath of smoke. The nicotine does shit to calm the storm inside me. It’s her and only her that can do that now.

A smirk tugs at my lips as she visibly battles between fear and fascination. God, her innocence is intoxicating. A high which drowns me in darkness and light all at once.

I Know I haven’t heard it all, but this was supposed to be an evening of fun and it has degenerated into something much more serious. I make an effort to lift the tone and crack a joke. Her laughter is all I need to know we are good, she is good. We have lingered over a whiskey for me, lemonade for her, but it is time to go.

The air outside the restaurant hits us, cold and sharp, a stark contrast to the warmth we’re leaving behind. Sofia’s beside me, her laughter still lingering, when suddenly, she stumbles.

“Fuck, Sofia, what’s wrong?” My voice is sharp with concern, cutting through the night.

“I’m, I’m okay,” she gasps, but her voice is anything but convincing. Her steps falter again, more pronounced this time, and I’m instantly at her side, my arm around her waist.

But it’s no use. She crumples, her body giving way, and I barely catch her before she hits the ground. “No, no, no,” I mutter, panic edging into my voice as I lower her gently to the pavement. Her skin is pale, too pale, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead that wasn’t there before.

“Does this look ‘okay’ to you?” I can’t keep the frustration from my voice, but it’s born of fear, not anger. She tries to respond, a weak attempt at reassurance that fades into a grimace of pain.

“Dammit, Sofia,” I curse under my breath, scooping her up in my arms. She’s light, too light, her body trembling against mine. Every instinct I have screams that this is bad, really bad. As I carry her back to the car, my mind races. What if it’s the baby? What if I lose them both? The thought is a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless with terror.

With Sofia cradled in my arms, I dart across the street toward my parked ride – a sleek, black Mercedes that’s as deadly quiet as it is fast. Swiftly, I deposit her in the back seat before sliding into the driver’s spot, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Fuck,” I growl under my breath. My heart rattles against my ribcage like a caged animal, desperate, rabid. The sight of her in pain has sent an ugly ripple through my world, puncturing the veneer of control I am always striving to maintain.

I swing through traffic with ruthless precision, heading towards the nearest hospital. Every tick of the clock feels likean eternity, every stoplight a torture device. I grind my teeth together so hard it feels like they might shatter.

Fuck anyone who dares to get in my way now.

I glance at her through the rearview mirror; she’s pale, grimacing with every jolt of the car. A tangled knot of anger and fear tightens in my gut at her vulnerability. No one should ever have this power over me – over us.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to stay calm for her sake. “We’re almost there,” I say in Russian. My gaze meets hers briefly before it switches back to the road. Goddammit, I need to keep it together.

Finally arriving at the hospital, I half park, half toss the car into a space before yanking open the backdoor and lifting Sofia into my arms again.

“Get out of our fucking way,” I snarl at anyone who dares slow us down as we charge through hospital doors. Inside, after a tense wait filled with worst-case scenarios playing out in my mind, the doctor finally gives us the news.

“It’s food poisoning,” he says, and I can barely believe my ears. Relief floods through me so fiercely I have to lean against the wall for support. All this panic over food poisoning. I thought... No, I don’t even want to entertain what I thought might have been happening.

Sofia, now resting on the hospital bed, looks up at me, a faint smile on her lips despite the ordeal. “See, I told you it was nothing to worry about.”

I’d called Maxym and Viktor. Now, as they walk into the room, their expressions tense with concern, Sofia looks up, surprised.

---