Page 55 of Married to the Bratva

Uh oh.

When I can stand, I go through to my bedroom, digging through my luggage, tossing clothes and random items onto the floor until I find what I’m looking for. A pregnancy test.

My chest tightens as I fumble with the packaging, pulling out the test and heading back to the bathroom.

I pee on the stick. The seconds stretch into an eternity as I wait for the result, my heart hammering against my ribs.

When the lines appear, bold and unflinching, my knees give out. I sink onto the damp floor, the test clutched in my hands.

Positive.

The word burns in my mind, sending a rush of fear and disbelief spiraling through me.

I press my forehead to my knees, trying to calm the storm raging inside me. A baby. Maxim’s baby. The thought is as terrifying as it is surreal.

I think about his cold gaze, his sharp edges, the way he moves through the world like it’s his to conquer. And then I think about his ruthlessness—what he did to Dimitri, the calculated violence that defines him.

How could I bring his child into this world? Would he see it as a weakness? A liability? Or something else entirely?

Thirty days is all he promised me. What if he thinks I got pregnant deliberately? I never once mentioned protection and neither did he. Are we both to blame for this?

My mind races through possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. But one thing becomes clear: I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I know what this means for me—for us.

I wrap the test in tissue and shove it deep into the trash, burying it under layers of discarded paper and wrappers. My hands still tremble as I wash up, splashing more cold water on my face.

You can do this, I tell myself, gripping the edge of the sink. You’ve handled worse. Just don’t let him know. Not yet.

By the time I leave the bathroom, my mask is firmly in place. My steps are steady, my expression neutral. But inside, the weight of the secret I’m now carrying feels impossibly heavy.

One question runs through my mind over and over. How the hell can I have a child with Maxim Abramov?

40

SOPHIE

The SUV hums steadily along the empty road. We’ve long left New York behind us, and my anxiety is increasing.

My eyes wander to Maxim, his hands resting firmly on the wheel, his gaze locked on the horizon. He looks like a calm Sunday driver heading to the lake. “Want to tell me what those coordinates were?” I ask. “I mean are we driving into Canada or what?”

He glances my way. “You still look ill. Travel sick?”

“I’m fine.” I reply, moving my eyes to the trees whipping past the window. “Just thinking about stuff.”

“Dangerous habit,” he mutters. “What about?”

I hesitate. The words are right there, clawing their way up my throat: I’m pregnant with your child and I feel like throwing up right now, and you’re a fucking Bratva boss.

Instead, I say, “I’m thinking about what we might find when we get wherever it is. What if we walk into an ambush?”

“It won’t be.”

“You seem very sure.”

“I am.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

He gives me a cold stare. “I never am.”

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