Page 45 of The Bratva's Forbidden Pregnancy

At least check to know what he wants this time—besides, you’re not even sure it’s from him, my voice of reason said.

Oh, that text is from him, alright, the other voice said.

I reached out for the phone and saw the message: We need to talk.

It was him.

Told ya.

There was nothing to talk about; why wouldn’t he just leave me alone? He’d done enough already, and I’d made a decision to do what was right by me.

He’s got it out for you, and trust me, he’s not gonna stop, my voice of reason said.

Whose side are you on, anyway?

This isn’t about sides; it’s the truth. The man is obsessed. Did you forget what he said while fucking you back at the club?

Well, if that were true, then why was he suddenly showing it now? It was already too late. Maybe if he’d shown this much concern after treating me like trash the first time, things would have been different between us.

Wanna know what I think? the other voice began. I think he’s just upset that you had the last laugh. You bruised his manly pride. So, there’s an 80 percent chance that he’ll shatter your heart—again—if you fall for his tricks.

That made sense. It was a bit awkward, but it made sense. What if that was the plan, to get me back so he could have the last laugh?

Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…? Well, I wasn’t going to let that happen.

But you want him back, don’t you? my voice of reason asked.

You need to stop whispering these hints of possibility where there’s none!

And you need to stop being so pessimistic all the goddamn time. It’s my job to make her see reason even when there isn’t any.

It was a war zone in my head, and those pesky little voices wouldn’t quiet.

Look, he’s too dark, okay? She deserves better!

What happened to always finding the light, even in the deepest darkness?

My voice of reason was seriously kicking it hard, and it was so annoying.

It’s different this time.

“Fuck!” I threw my hands into my hair, smoothing it back as I got out of my chair, frustrated. “Time out,” I said, shutting the voices out. “Jesus Christ!”

My head was so full and heavy from the constant thoughts that overlapped themselves in my mind.

“Arghh!” I groaned, massaging my temples. It was like I was losing my sanity, and all I wanted to do was scream.

I needed to express these sickening feelings that had me riled up, so I grabbed my paints and brushes.

On the canvas, I let my emotions out, unleashing them all as I painted the darkness, the hatred and love that caused turmoil inside me. Each brushstroke, lighter than the last, seamlessly eased me of these overwhelming emotions, freeing me from their weight.

In no time, the once blank canvas was covered in multiple colors of paints and intricate patterns that conveyed my inner conflicts.

I exhaled sharply, looking at the piece before me. I was no Edgar Degas, but this was my own art. A portrait that came from a dark place, inspired by a mix of pain and pleasure, hatred and love.

I tossed the brush aside and lowered my head, rubbing my eyes then my temples in an attempt to soothe this terrible headache.

For days, a persistent heaviness in my head had plagued me with an occasional migraine that threatened to kill me.

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