Page 40 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

“I can always get Yefim’s lady to make us a stew. She makes a better one than the chef. Jeez, that woman can cook. You want me to call her?”

“No, not tonight. Let’s make it another night. I’ll pick something up for dinner on the way home. I’d rather wait till the flu is totally gone so I don’t make everyone sick. And I need to rest.”

“Mm. Okay,” Oleg nods slowly.

Finally, we load the last crate back into the storeroom and the shipment is on the truck pulling away from the warehouse. I resist the urge to look at my watch again, trying to act casual and not rush out of here the second we finish.

Oleg comes to stand next to me. He reaches out and grabs my shoulder. “Alright, man. Good to see you. Hope you feeling better soon, hey?”

Inside, I breathe a sigh of relief. “You too, man. I’ll call you soon to arrange that dinner.”

“Yeah, I think I am going to see if Yefim has had any luck finding Clara.”

“Oh, right. Let me know.”

Oleg nods and starts walking towards his car.

I wait a few seconds, then turn towards mine.

I fuss around a little, still trying to pretend I don’t have this crazy urge to spin out of here back to Clara.

I feel horrible.

I can’t believe I just spent half the day with my brother and lied to him so many times. Still, I think they know I was clearly hiding something, and none of my brothers are stupid people—he thought something was going on. I can only hope I did enough to ease his curiosity or concern.

Sighing, I start the car and pull out slowly. Only once I am on the open road and some distance from the warehouse do I press my foot harder against the accelerator.

I didn’t need Oleg seeing me racing off as though I was too eager to get somewhere.

I really hope he doesn’t think anything of my off behavior today. I tried to hide it, but the tension I feel being away from Clara is difficult to conceal.

The buildings are a blur past my window as I speed through the city.

Clara is waiting for me, and I need to get home to her.

After a while the buildings turn into trees, green and bright, thick forests rushing past my window. I’m almost home.

When I do pull into my driveway I breathe a sigh of relief. I hadn’t realized that my shoulders were knotted up and my neck muscles were so tense.

I roll may shoulders back a few times to ease out the knots and my neck clicks as I tilt may head to the left and then the right.

I’m home now.

Walking through the front door, I call out her name, but she is already there, waiting—and very angry.

“Clara—"

“What the fuck is wrong with you how can you just leave like that and not even say anything you just snuck out and left me here without a clue about whether or not you were ever coming back—” She is screaming at me. The words blur into one long sentence and she doesn’t even take a breath between them.

Her fists are clenched, and her eyes are swollen and red as though she has been crying for ages.

“Clara, I—"

“You what? Huh? What?” she glares at me with ferocious, untamed rage, but then I notice it—behind that anger, behind all of that frustration and wild temper, is fear.

I reach out to touch her arm and she smacks thy hand away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me,” she snaps, taking a step away from me and bumping into the side table near the front entrance.

I reach out to try and grab her arm again. I just want to pull her closer, hug her and try to help her calm down.

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