Page 20 of Pregnant By the Bratva

Ivan

The sharp clack of the pool balls echoes through the room as I line up my next shot. The dim light casts shadows across the table, and I focus on the game, using it to keep my thoughts steady. Maxim leans against the wall, a cigarette hanging from his lips, while Artem chalks his cue, his face unreadable as always. Sergei and Viktor are lounging on the leather couches, drinks in hand, watching the game with lazy interest.

I sink the eight ball, winning the round, and step back, handing the cue to Maxim. “Your turn,” I say, though my mind isn’t entirely on the game.

Maxim takes the cue and lines up his shot, but his eyes flicker toward me. “You think she can be trusted with this?” he asks, his tone casual, but I can tell he’s weighing the risks.

I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. “She has no choice. She’s smart enough to know that if she wants to survive, she has to deliver.”

Artem, always the realist, nods in agreement. “We have nothing to lose,” he says, his voice calm. “If she screws up, she’s dead. If she succeeds, we get our money back and more. It’s a win-win.”

Maxim pockets a ball, then looks up at me, his gaze sharp. “If she turns on us? If she’s playing a double game?”

“She won’t,” I reply, a finality in my voice that I don’t intend to question. “She’s too smart for that. Kace betrayed her,left her to die. She knows there’s no going back to him. The only way forward is with us.”

Sergei, sprawled out on the couch with a grin on his face, takes a sip of his drink. “She’s got fire, that one. Feisty. She’s easy on the eyes too.” He glances at me, smirking. “Maybe when you’re done with her, Boss, you could hand her over to me.”

The room goes quiet, the air thick with tension. I feel my grip tighten on the glass in my hand, a wave of anger rising unexpectedly. The thought of any of these men laying a hand on Sarah stirs something dark and possessive inside me. It’s not a feeling I’m used to, and it catches me off guard, but it’s there, and it’s real.

“She’s not some toy to be passed around,” I say coldly, my voice cutting through the silence. Sergei’s grin falters, realizing he’s overstepped.

“Of course, Boss,” Sergei mutters, raising his hands in mock surrender, but the mood in the room has shifted, my irritation clear to everyone.

Maxim, ever observant, watches me closely, but he knows better than to push the issue. Artem takes the cue from him, ready to play the next round, but I can’t shake the thoughts swirling in my mind. Sarah’s face flashes before me, the way she looked at me when she agreed to my terms, the way she carried herself despite the fear I could see behind her eyes.

She’s dangerous, no doubt about it. A woman capable of deception, manipulation—she’s been playing this game for a long time. There’s something about her that draws me in, something that makes me want to keep her close. It’s not just about getting back what’s ours. It’s about power, control, thethrill of owning something—or someone—that’s as dangerous as she is.

The idea of owning her, of having her under my control, excites me in a way I haven’t felt in years. Sarah isn’t just another asset. She’s something more, something I’ve claimed for myself. The thought of anyone else touching her, even looking at her the way Sergei did, makes my blood boil.

Artem breaks the silence, his voice steady as he lines up his shot. “If she succeeds, it’ll be a good blow to the Prestons. Kace won’t know what hit him.”

I nod, forcing my thoughts back to the business at hand. “She’ll succeed,” I say, more to myself than to them. “She knows what’s at stake.”

The game continues, the others chatting and laughing as the tension slowly eases, but I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted tonight. Sarah isn’t just a pawn in this game—she’s become something more in my mind, something I want to control, to own. The attraction I feel toward her is undeniable, and… I’m not used to feeling anything I can’t easily dismiss.

***

When I finally get home, the night is quiet, the mansion bathed in the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. As I step inside, the maid is just about to leave. She looks up at me with a mixture of respect and nervousness, her eyes downcast as she speaks.

“Mr. Sharov,” she says quietly, “Miss Sarah hasn’t eaten anything all day.”

I nod, acknowledging her words. “Thank you,” I reply, my voice even. She dips her head slightly and then leaves, the soft click of the front door closing behind her echoing in the stillness.

I head upstairs, my thoughts heavy with the weight of the day. The meeting with the men earlier had gone well enough, but it’s Sarah who lingers in my mind. The image of her, the way she handled herself in front of those men, has stayed with me. There’s a vulnerability to her that I can’t quite shake, a fragility beneath the surface that I find myself drawn to, despite knowing better.

When I reach her room, I don’t bother knocking. I turn the handle and push the door open, stepping inside. The room is dimly lit, a small lamp on the bedside table casting a soft, warm glow over the space. Sarah is sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her eyes are red and puffy, a telltale sign that she’s been crying. Even now, she’s trying to hold back the tears, but the pain is clear on her face.

She doesn’t say anything as I approach, her gaze fixed on some distant point, lost in her thoughts. I move closer, standing beside the bed, looking down at her. The sight of her like this stirs something in me, something protective and possessive all at once.

“Are you crying because of the situation with the Prestons?” I ask, my voice low, though I already have a feeling that’s not the only thing weighing on her.

She shakes her head slightly, her voice barely a whisper as she replies, “You think I feel bad about going against the American Mafia? They betrayed me.” Her tone hardens, but Ican still hear the crack in it, the pain she’s trying to bury. “I don’t feel a tiny bit bad about that.”

She stands up, her movements slow, almost hesitant, until she’s standing in front of me. She’s close enough that I can see the tears welling up in her eyes again, threatening to spill over. When she looks up at me, I can see the sorrow etched into her features, the anguish that she’s been carrying with her.

“I can’t forget it,” she says, her voice trembling. “I killed a man. I have blood on my hands, and I can’t get it out of my head.”

Her tears start to fall, and before I can say anything, she reaches out, grabbing the fabric of my shirt in her fists, holding on as if she’s trying to anchor herself to something, anything. Her frustration is palpable, the raw emotion in her eyes tearing at whatever walls I’ve tried to build around myself.

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