Page 47 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

“No,” I say, leaving absolutely no question in my tone. “She is not going anywhere.”

Clara bites her lower lip, then lifts the wine glass to her mouth and sips slowly.

"For fuck's sake,” Oleg mutters. “Clara, none of this was planned. We had no idea this was going on.” He sighs.

“I gather that," she says softly.

“So, what now? Are you going to tell your uncle everything?”

She shakes her head.

“You were kidnapped, why wouldn’t you want justice? I mean—you obviously want justice.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“She—she’s perfectly fine here with me.” I sigh, pressing my fingers against my right temple, trying to massage away the stress headache that is building next to my eye.

“You can’t speak for her,” Anya snaps. “Besides, what we are worried about more than whether she is okay here or not is how this whole mess is going to affect everyone else.”

The tension in the room is growing thicker by the minute. I have to do something to break it up a little, to ease it off and hopefully get my siblings to calm down enough to agree not to tell my other brothers.

“Guys, I’m about to heat up some left over lasagna. Let’s all sit down, eat dinner, and just take a moment.”

They all look at me like I’m a little crazy. Then Oleg shrugs. “I am hungry.”

Thank fuck.

I get up to go through to the kitchen, then hesitate. I don’t want to leave them alone with Clara. There is no telling what they will say to her.

“Clara, do you mind helping me?”

She jumps up, all too eager to get away from this tense situation.

She follows quickly behind me to the kitchen.

“They are really angry, Alexei,” she says quietly once we are alone.

“Yes, I noticed.”

I want to ask Clara why she didn’t say anything when Anya offered to take her home, just drop her off at her uncle's place. She could have jumped at the opportunity. Why would she stay quiet?

But I can’t bring myself to ask in case she says she would like to do that.

I don’t want her to.

I wouldn’t allow it.

And then things would be really tense all over again.

My eyes roam up and down over her.

I want to go back to the moment on the couch outside.

“I’ll get some plates,” she says, distracting me from my daydream.

“You can put them on the dining room table. I’ll start the oven to heat this lasagna up and then I’ll bring the knives and forks.”

Clara disappears, carrying a pile of four plates, then comes back in to fetch the salt and pepper shakers.

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