Page 10 of Pregnant By the Bratva

“Everything go smoothly?” I ask, my voice low but carrying in the confined space.

Maxim nods. “She put up a bit of a fight, but nothing we couldn’t handle. She’s tougher than she looks.”

I smirk, appreciating the irony. “Good. Toughness runs in the family, but it won’t help her here.”

He gestures toward the door at the end of the hallway. “She’s in there. Guarded, as you requested.”

I nod, satisfied. “Let’s see our guest, then.”

Together, we walk toward the door, the sound of our footsteps reverberating off the concrete walls. Two of my men stand at attention outside the room, their faces impassive, but they straighten as I approach.

I push the door open, and the first thing that hits me is the sight of her. Sophia Preston, the golden child, Kace’s precious daughter, now sitting in a cold, dimly lit cell. She’s slumped against the wall, her hands bound in front of her, the light above casting shadows across her pale face. Her hair is disheveled, and there’s a faint bruise on her temple where Maxim must have struck her.

As I step inside, something feels off. She’s unconscious, her body limp against the unforgiving concrete floor. I pause, narrowing my eyes as I take in her appearance. There’s afamiliarity to her—she matches the image I’ve studied countless times before, yet… something’s different.

I pull the photo from my pocket, the one I’ve been carrying since we first decided to make our move. In it, Sophia Preston stands confidently, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, the small rose tattoo visible on her waist. There’s a brightness to her, a self-assuredness that’s missing from the woman lying on the floor in front of me.

It might just be because she’s still knocked out, but….

I hold the photo next to her, comparing the two. The resemblance is undeniable—the same delicate features, the same golden hair—but there’s a subtle difference in her face, a slight discrepancy that I can’t quite place.

“Maxim,” I say, my voice low, my eyes still fixed on the woman. “Are you sure this is her?”

Maxim steps forward, his gaze flicking between the picture and the woman on the ground. “It’s her, Ivan. She had the right ID in her bag, along with her things. There’s no doubt.”

I nod slowly, though the unease in my gut doesn’t entirely dissipate. “She looks different,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Something’s not right.”

Maxim shrugs, unconcerned. “Could be the lighting, or the fact that she’s been knocked out. She’ll look more like herself once she’s awake.”

I study her face again, but the feeling of something being off doesn’t leave me. Maybe it’s just the context, seeing her like this, stripped of the confidence and power she normally exudes.Or maybe it’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on.

I let out a slow breath, slipping the photo back into my pocket. “Keep an eye on her. When she wakes up, I want to know immediately.”

Maxim nods, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Don’t worry. She’s not going anywhere.”

I watch as the woman on the cold concrete floor starts to stir. Her eyelids flutter, a faint groan escaping her lips as she begins to regain consciousness. I take a step back, giving her space as she slowly wakes up, her movements sluggish at first, but growing more purposeful as awareness returns.

Sophia blinks a few times, her vision clearing. She pushes herself up into a sitting position, wincing as she touches the bruise on her temple. Her eyes, a deep green, scan the room, taking in her surroundings, the cold walls, the men standing guard, and finally landing on me.

Fear flashes across her face, but it’s quickly replaced by a steely resolve. She stands, though unsteadily, pressing her back against the wall as if readying herself for a fight. Despite the fear in her eyes, there’s something else there too—something resilient, unyielding. It’s a look that doesn’t quite match the image I had of Sophia Preston, the sheltered daughter of Kace.

“What do you want from me?” she demands, her voice shaking slightly, though she tries to sound strong. I can see she’s trying to keep her composure, but there’s a tension in her posture that tells me she knows she’s in deep trouble.

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I take a step closer, watching her carefully, studying the way her eyes flicker withapprehension. “You aren’t Sophia, are you?” I say, my voice low, almost accusatory.

Her face pales, the color draining from her cheeks as the truth of my words sinks in. She doesn’t answer, her lips pressing into a thin line as she crosses her arms protectively over her chest. The silence that follows is telling, more so than any denial she could offer.

Maxim’s confusion is palpable. He steps forward, glancing between our captive and me. “What do you mean? How is that possible? We found her ID, her things. It has to be her.”

I pull out the photograph of Sophia once more, holding it up next to her. “Sophia Preston has brown eyes,” I say, my tone cold and precise, pointing to the image. “This woman’s eyes are green.”

Maxim stares at her, his brow furrowing as he finally notices the difference. It’s subtle, but undeniable. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, realization dawning on him. “Then who the hell is she?”

I don’t answer him. Instead, I turn my attention back to the woman, my eyes narrowing as I consider my next move. I need to be sure. “Take off your shirt,” I command, my voice leaving no room for argument.

Her reaction is immediate—her eyes widen in shock, and she instinctively pulls her arms tighter around herself, refusing to comply. “I’m not doing that,” she says, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.

I expected resistance, but it doesn’t matter. I need to confirm my suspicions, and there’s one unmistakable way to dothat. I glance at the men in the room, the guards who have been standing by, ready to intervene if necessary. This isn’t their task.

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