Page 43 of Pregnant By the Bratva

“Ivan,” I whisper against his lips, my voice trembling with a mixture of desire and something deeper, something more tender. “I need you.”

He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

I smile, a small, grateful smile, and I kiss him again, pouring everything I have into it. His hand slides up my back, tangling in my hair as he pulls me even closer, our bodies pressing together in a way that makes me feel like we’re two halves of the same whole. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and I can’t get enough of him.

As we kiss, the heat between us builds, and I can feel his hand moving lower, tracing the curve of my hip, sending shivers down my spine. I arch into him, wanting more, needing more, and he responds with a low growl, his lips trailing down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to me as he kisses his way down to my collarbone, his touch driving me wild with need. I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine, and he quickly pulls it off, discarding it without a second thought. The sight of him, his body taut with muscle and desire, takes my breath away, and I can’t help but reach out to touchhim, to trace the lines of his chest, his abs, marveling at the strength that lies beneath.

He pulls me back into another kiss, his hands roaming over my body with a reverence that makes my heart ache. As our kisses grow more heated, more intense, I feel something shift between us—something that goes beyond the physical, something that feels like the beginning of something new.

Eventually, we pull back, both of us breathless, our foreheads resting against each other as we try to catch our breath. I look up at him, my heart swelling with a love that I never thought I’d be capable of feeling again. “I was thinking,” I say softly, my voice a little shaky but full of emotion. “About the baby’s name.”

He raises an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation, but he nods, waiting for me to continue.

“I know it’s taken us too long to decide. With so much going on…. But I want to name her something Russian,” I say, my voice steadying as I speak. “Something that honors where she comes from. What do you think about… Yelena?”

His eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, he just looks at me, a mixture of surprise and something else—something tender—in his expression. “Yelena,” he repeats, the name rolling off his tongue with a softness that I’ve rarely heard from him. “It’s beautiful.”

I smile, a warmth spreading through my chest at his approval. “I think it suits her,” I say, feeling a sense of rightness settle over me. “And it connects her to you, to her heritage.”

Ivan’s hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over my skin in a way that makes my heart flutter.“Yelena it is,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a deep affection that makes my eyes sting with unshed tears.

I lean in, kissing him softly, and as we lie there, wrapped up in each other, I feel something shift inside me. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong. Not just to Ivan, but to this family we’re creating together. As I hold him close, I know that whatever challenges lie ahead, we’ll face them together.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ivan

The hum of the engine fills the silence as I drive, my thoughts focused on the tasks ahead. There’s always something that needs handling, some deal to finalize, some loose end to tie up. But today, my mind is pulled back to Sarah, to our daughter, Yelena, and the life we’ve started to build together. Just as I’m about to settle into the rhythm of the drive, my phone buzzes on the console beside me. Artem’s name flashes on the screen.

I answer the call, keeping my eyes on the road. “Artem, what is it?”

There’s a pause on the other end, the kind that tells me something’s off. Artem is rarely hesitant, but when he is, it’s never good news. “Boss, I don’t really know how to say this… but I just saw something odd.”

My grip on the steering wheel tightens, a cold knot forming in my gut. “What did you see?”

“Sarah,” he says slowly, as if weighing each word. “She just invited an unknown man inside. I saw her hold his hand… it didn’t look right.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Sarah, with another man? It doesn’t make sense. That’s not like her. She wouldn’t do something like that—not to me, not after everything we’ve been through. Artem isn’t one to lie or exaggerate. If he says he saw it, then he saw it.

A surge of anger and confusion crashes over me. Without a second thought, I yank the steering wheel to the side, makinga sharp turn in the direction of home. My mind races as I drive, the tension in my chest tightening with every mile that brings me closer to the house. How could this be possible? Why would Sarah be with another man, holding his hand? It doesn’t add up.

I try to push down the anger boiling inside me, but it’s no use. The thought of someone else near her, touching her, in our home, around our daughter—it’s unbearable. Whoever this man is, he’s either incredibly bold or incredibly stupid to think he can come into my home and try to take what’s mine.

By the time I pull into the driveway, my anger has turned into a cold, seething rage. I slam the car door shut behind me and stride toward the house, my mind already running through the possibilities, trying to make sense of the situation. There has to be an explanation, some reason for this, but right now, all I can think about is confronting the man who dared to walk into my home.

I push open the front door and step inside, the quiet of the house doing nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me. The sound of low voices drifts from the living room, and I follow it, my footsteps echoing through the hall. When I reach the doorway, the sight before me stops me cold.

Sarah is sitting on the couch, her posture relaxed, but there’s tension in her face. Across from her is an unknown man, casually holding Yelena—our daughter—in his arms. He’s smiling down at her, his body language easy, as if he belongs here, as if he has every right to be holding my child.

For a moment, the sight is so jarring that I don’t move, don’t speak. Then the anger rears its head again, white-hot and dangerous. How dare he? How dare he sit here in my house, holding my daughter, as if he has any claim to this family?

Sarah looks up and sees me standing there, and the expression on her face shifts—surprise, concern, and then something that looks like relief. I’m too far gone to care about the nuances of her reaction. My gaze shifts to the man, and I can’t keep the venom out of my voice as I speak.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand, my voice low and deadly.

The man looks up, meeting my gaze with a calmness that only infuriates me further. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move to put Yelena down. Instead, he gives me a measured look, as if he’s trying to assess the situation, to see how much danger he’s in. He’s playing with fire, and he doesn’t even realize it.

---