Page 212 of The Lazarov Bratva

He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me right here and now.

After an excruciatingly long pause, he releases me and I cough violently. Gasping, my vision swims with tears as Mikhail settles back and pats my stomach.

“I can’t wait.” He smirks. “I’ll make you wish you’d never rejected me.”

No.

Such a clear decision happens so quickly in my mind that it almost feels like someone else made it.

That’s not happening.

“Can you untie me?” I gasp, struggling to settle my racing heart and my desperate need for air. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Mikhail snorts. “I’d rather watch you piss yourself.”

“How pleased do you think Mara’s going to be when she learns that you not only choked me but want me to lie in my own piss? Even the slightest chance that you’ve done something that could harm this baby won’t go down well with her, will it?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mikhail remarks, but his eyes dart uncertainly to the door. His internal debate doesn’t last long, and he grunts. “Fine.”

He’s less than kind in undoing the ropes, and his grip is painful when he hauls me up from the bed. As much as it sickens me, I lean into his hold as we hobble to the bathroom and I only let him go when the sink is within reach.

“Get out.”

“I want to watch.” His lips twist back into that cold smirk.

“I can’t go with a fucking audience,” I snap, still panting. “Can’t imagine what holding this will do to my body. The slightest risk, remember?”

He wants to argue. I can see it burning in his eyes, but his respect—or fear—of Mara wins out.

“Fine.” He bows mockingly and retreats, slamming the door behind him.

The moment I have privacy, I sag against the sink and a muffled sob escapes past my trembling fingers. How is this happening? How did things somehow get even more fucked up?

I can’t allow that ending. I can’t be his. Not even for a second. There has to be something I can do.

The problem is that none of the ideas I have hold any merit. Escape is impossible, and even if I did slip away from him, I wouldn’t get far this heavily pregnant. I need something else. Another solution.

One that means even if the worst happens with Mara, Mikhail will never get me. I have to think like Kristof.

I need a weapon.

Scanning the bathroom, I hastily wipe away my tears and turn on both taps to hide any noise. The only thing not nailed down in here is the plastic soap dish. It sits on the opposite edge of the bath, and quickly, a plan forms in my mind. Taking a towel from the rack, I quickly wrap the soap dish in it and drop it to the floor, then stamp repeatedly on it. It takes a good few stomps before the dish shatters.

Then comes the hard part.

Using the sink, the toilet, and then the bath, I lower myself down to the floor with muted grunts and groans. Unraveling the towel, fate rewards me with a long, thin shard of sharp plastic from the broken dish. Discarding the other pieces in the bath, I hide the shard against me and take a deep breath.

“Mikhail!”

He rushes in immediately and stops when he sees me on the floor. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I slipped off the toilet. Can you help me up?” There’s no way I can get up by myself.

With a deep, irritated sigh, Mikhail leans over and takes my arm. I keep my other arm close to my body, hiding the shard as Mikhail slowly hauls me up from the floor.

“Be more careful,” he snaps. “I’m not the only one Mara will have words with if you endanger her baby.”

Her baby. I bite back a snarl and nod. “Sure.”

---