Page 59 of Baby for the Bratva

A prickle of warmth moves over the back of my neck, and I rub it away with my palm. “Ah, I don’t think that qualifies as a relationship. More of a hookup.”

“And what if it happens again? How many times until you’re my girlfriend?” he asks as the elevator doors roll open.

I think for a second. “Would have to be something regular.”

He leans in, and I smell his sweet and spicy cologne. His beard tickles my neck as he whispers into my ear. “I’ll fuck you as many times as it takes to make you mine.”

I shudder hard, my legs almost giving way beneath me. How is he able to make me feel like this in just a few seconds? I’m already uncomfortably wet.

Yuri looks smug, knowing the effect he’s having on me. “You’re already mine, Stella, even if you don’t know it yet.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” I say, but my voice dies in my throat. It comes out as barely a whisper, and Yuri doesn’t even acknowledge that I said anything at all.

“Let’s go,” he says, putting his large hand on my waist and moving me out of the elevator with him. “It’s my turn for a question.”

I’m relieved, but also nervous about what he intends to ask me.

“Why didn’t you drink the wine at Javell’s? Unless I warn you about something, it’s okay to do it. You’re safe when you’re with me,” he says, his tone indicating that he isn’t upset. He sounds more concerned about my comfort than anything else.

A nervous laugh slips through my pursed lips. I’m not sure if I should tell him the truth because I’m afraid it’s going to make me sound crazy.

I roll my shoulders back, trying to fake my way to the confidence I lack. “I just want to make sure I’m not drinking after we had unprotected sex. Seems reckless because you never know if–”

Yuri spins around, slamming his hand against the wall in front of me and blocking my path. His blue eyes are glowing with what appears to be panic. I’ve never seen this look from him before. “What did you say?”

What little confidence I had is now gone. I shrink away from him, holding my hands against my chest. “I was just saying I didn’t want to drink alcohol after having sex. You know, because of the… I mean, potentially there could be a baby. Probably not… but…”

He laughs, but he looks like he wants to cry. “You weren’t on the pill?”

I shake my head. “I told you I wasn’t.”

“Right, right,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. “Well, you’re probably not pregnant. It was just one time.”

I shrug. “Right, but better safe than sorry. I’m not trying to freak you out. I’m just being careful. I would’ve had a little brother, but my mom didn’t know she was pregnant and was drinking a lot at the time.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” he says, his tone shifting immediately. “Okay, don’t worry about it. No alcohol, but I’m pretty sure you’re not pregnant. We’ll be more careful next time.”

Next time… I knew we probably would, but the way he says it with such confidence tells me it’s going to happen sooner rather than later. Admittedly, the idea excites me, but I’m still sore from the last time. He’s so big.

Yuri removes his hand from the wall and smiles. “Time for an interrogation. You can sit this one out if you want, or you can watch.”

“I’ll watch,” I say, eager for something to take my mind off the possibility of a pregnancy. It’s a bit silly, really, but the story about my mother was true. Even small mistakes can lead to big regrets later on.

“Okay, but brace yourself. Sometimes these things can get ugly,” he warns as we continue down the hallway.

I roll my shoulders back again. “I can handle it,” I reply, but I’m really not sure if I can. All of this is so new, and I don’t know what to think about it.

All I know is that Yuri swore to protect me, and his word is the only thing I can rely on anymore.

27

Stella

“Clara Santos,” Yuri says, holding up a passport and glancing at the handcuffed woman in the cargo area. Several men stand around with guns, but the woman hardly looks like a threat. It’s almost unbelievable that she has it in her to push someone off a boat in the middle of the night.

I stand off to the side, trying to avoid eye contact with the woman. Chekhov didn’t deserve to die, and it’s difficult to have sympathy for a killer, but I still don’t want to see her hurt. I don’t like this part of the Bratva. Not one bit.

“You’re Brazilian,” Yuri says, tossing the passport onto the ground. “I’m assuming you came here because of my bounty?”

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