Page 41 of Knocked Up by the Bratva

The baby’s cries have softened now, his tiny hands clutching at Jennifer’s shirt as he looks up at her with wide, innocent eyes. I watch them both, my anger simmering just beneath the surface, but as I look at my son—my flesh and blood—I feel something unfamiliar. A flicker of something softer, something almost protective.

I take another step closer, my gaze shifting from Jennifer to the baby. His small face is a mirror of hers, but there’s something in his eyes that reminds me of myself. The realization hits me harder than I expected, and for a moment I feel… something. Something beyond the rage and the need for control.

“He’s mine,” I say quietly, more to myself than to her. “He’s… mine.”

Jennifer looks up at me, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “That’s right, he’s our son,” she says softly, her voice trembling with emotion.

I don’t respond. Instead, I reach out, brushing my fingers lightly against the baby’s cheek. His skin is soft, warm, and for a fleeting second, I feel something close to tenderness. I quickly pull my hand back, shoving the feeling down as I harden my expression once again.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed as I watch her move around the room, packing her things. She’s quiet, her movements quick and efficient, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands shake slightly when she reaches for something. She’s nervous, terrified even. Good.

She throws some clothes into a bag, her back to me as she avoids looking in my direction. There’s someone stationed in every room of this place, and she knows it. There’s no escape thistime. No more disappearing in the middle of the night like she did before. Not again. Not with my son in tow.

The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I don’t speak, and neither does she. I don’t need to say anything. My presence alone is enough to keep her on edge.

As she reaches for the closet, something catches my eye. A dress, hanging among her more practical clothes. It’s different, more revealing, something meant for a night out. The fabric is a deep shade of red, silky and elegant, with a plunging neckline. My jaw clenches as I take it in.

“Why do you need something like that?” I ask, my voice low but sharp.

Jennifer freezes for a second, her hand still on the dress. Slowly, she turns to look at me, her eyes wide. “I… I went out last month,” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper.

My gaze narrows, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You went out?” I repeat, taking a step closer to her. “In that?”

She nods, swallowing nervously. “It was just a night out, with some friends. That’s all.”

I don’t like the idea of her out there, dressed like that, without me. My chest tightens, a possessive rage bubbling up inside me. The thought of her wearing something so sexy, something meant to draw attention, while I wasn’t there to keep her in check…. It makes my blood boil.

“Pack it,” I order, my voice rough. “It’s for my eyes only. No one else gets to see you in something like that.”

Jennifer bites her lip, turning back to the closet and pulling the dress off the hanger. She folds it carefully and tucks it into the bag. I watch her every move, the tension between us growing with each second that passes.

“Have you been with other men?” I ask suddenly, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

She spins around, eyes wide with shock. “No,” she blurts out, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I haven’t… not since you.”

My fists tighten at my sides, the rage simmering down just a little. I needed to hear that. I needed to know that no one else has touched her, that no one else has had her since the night we were together.

“Good. It stays that way.”

She doesn’t respond, her eyes dropping to the floor as she turns back to her packing. I can see the conflict in her, the way she’s struggling to accept what her life has become. She hates me for what I do, for what I am, but there’s no denying the pull between us. No denying that, despite everything, she’s mine.

As she continues packing, I move closer, watching her carefully. She tries to ignore me, but I can see the way her body reacts to my presence. She’s not as indifferent as she wants to be.

“You’re coming back with me, tonight,” I say quietly, my voice almost gentle now. “You’ll do as I say. You’ll stay with me, take care of our son, and you’ll stop running. Do you understand?”

Her shoulders tense, but she nods, her voice barely audible as she mutters, “I understand.”

She zips up the bag and places it by the door, straightening up and finally meeting my eyes. There’s fear in her gaze, but something else too. A flicker of defiance, of resistance.

I don’t mind it. She can fight all she wants. She can resist. In the end, she’ll learn.

Chapter Nineteen - Jennifer

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching my son as he sleeps, his tiny chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The room is quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. My nerves are frayed, my thoughts a tangled mess of fear and uncertainty. We’re here, in Timur’s mansion. For what? What’s going to happen to us now?

Tyler stirs in his sleep, a soft sigh escaping his little lips, and I gently brush a hand over his head, trying to find some comfort in his peacefulness. He looks so much like Timur—too much, almost. It’s in the shape of his eyes, the curve of his jawline, and every time I look at him, I’m reminded of the man who brought us to this point.

My chest tightens as I think about Timur. If he wanted to hurt us, he would have already done it. He’s ruthless, yes, but if he wanted us gone, we’d be gone. So why bring us here? Why now, after all this time?

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