Page 95 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

I’m on a fucking island?!

Rich people.

“What the…” Panting, I pull myself up and stare out. My plan, as weak as it was, didn’t at all include being stuck on a fucking island.

“I knew you would try something stupid.”

I spin around with a gasp and come face-to-face with Ivan. His face is calm, although a silver shadow now grazes his jaw. Both his hands clasp together atop his cane and he rocks it from side to side, watching me.

“I…” I have nothing. No excuse. No idea. Nothing.

“Come back inside. I’m about to have dinner.” He must see the immediate rejection in my eyes because he steps forward slowly, and then looks me up and down. “What other choice do you have? Should I push you over the side? It’s a steep fall but not enough to kill you. Paralyze you, maybe. Either way, you will still be mine.”

Nausea churns in my gut and the acidic burn of bile crawls up my throat. He’s right.

What choice do I have?

“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” Ivan spears some chicken onto his fork and holds it up in the air.

The grand dining table is absolutely heaving with food of all kinds. Ivan sits at the head, and his guards force me to sit right next to him, where he now tries to feed me slowly.

It’s disgusting and humiliating, and I have no idea what the hell he gets out of doing this.

I eye the chicken, then him.

“I’m allergic to chicken.”

He lifts one brow. “Are you indeed.”

I might be hungry and trapped, but I refuse to eat off his fork like some kind of animal.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask as he slides the chicken into his own mouth. “I have no value to you.”

“You are a woman,” Ivan remarks. “I would play with your corpse and still see value.”

My stomach rolls in utter disgust.

“You are currently more valuable than that. To Fyodor and Zasha, you are valuable.”

“How? Zasha is dead, and Fyodor hates me now that they know who I am. Why I was planted there by my mother.” Admitting it out loud hurts, like each word is a razor blade pressing against the slice inside my cheek.

“Zasha is not dead,” Ivan replies smoothly. “He lives. As do you. One would think Daniil is just terrible at doing his job but we both know that isn’t true.”

I freeze as if dunked backward into a bucket of ice water.

Zasha is alive?! Daniil didn’t kill him?

“Don’t look so hopeful, my dear,” Ivan remarks. “I’m sure Zasha hates you too.”

Maybe, I decide. But he’s alive.

“You honestly do not know your value?” Ivan leans back in his chair and the wood creaks in protest. Then he lifts his cane and presses the end to my abdomen with a hand much steadier than I would expect from a man his age. I shrink back against the chair, pressing as flat as I can against the back, but he increases the pressure until he’s pinning me there. Pain gradually blooms out from the point of contact and I scarcely dare to breathe.

“You are not valuable. But that is.”

My baby?

“Your child, whoever the father is, carries the legacy of a Bratva family. Whichever one, I do not care.”

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