Page 11 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

“Disappointed?” I take a generous sip of wine. “Never. You cook so well that if we spent more nights together, you’d be on permanent meal duty.”

Without missing a beat, he leans in. “Who said we can’t?”

My eyes snap to his, the intent behind his words clear in the way his gaze simmers. Silence settles awkwardly between us. Shit. I’ve had too much to drink. Why did I have to go on about spending more nights together? What did I think would happen?

It’s obvious now—he’s into me. My loosened tongue is only giving him more openings, and Abram is taking every chance to make his intentions known. I need to stop before this professional facade crumbles completely.

His unanswered question lingers, thick with unspoken possibilities. I swallow hard, pushing down the desire rising in me, imagining what those nights could mean. The images—him naked with that ripped chest, hands running across my curves, how I might throw back my neck and have him in for a taste—make me squeeze my legs close together.

No!I need to stop before my thoughts run too wild. With a sudden motion, I set my glass down with a near-slam, the cool counter grounding me. I wipe my mouth with my napkin and push my plate aside.

“That was the perfect end to a wonderful professional relationship,” I say, my voice carefully controlled. I offer a small smile. “Thank you for everything. But I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

Abram’s expression shifts, the playful spark in his eyes fading just a bit. He leans back, studying me as if searching for something in the words I’m not saying.

"Zara," Abram’s voice drops, more serious now. "Are you sure you want this to be the end?"

The question hits harder than I expected. Part of me aches to stay, to give in to the pull I feel toward him. But another part knows the risks—knows what crossing that line could cost.

"I… I think it’s for the best," I whisper, my voice shaky. "I need to maintain professionalism."

His jaw tightens, frustration flashing in his eyes before he composes himself. He stands and moves toward me, my pulse racing as he approaches. When his hands grip the stool and spin me to face him, my heart hammers in my chest.

I lean back as he leans in, his hands resting on the table behind me, pinning me between him and the countertop. My breath comes in shallow bursts, lost in the intensity of his gaze.

“And why,” he asks, voice tight with restraint, “do you believe that anything more would undermine your career? Have colleagues never fallen for each other? Have bosses not married their juniors? Have doctors never had affairs in the hospital? Give me one good reason, and I’ll never ask again.”

My mind races, scrambling for a reason to resist him. But with him so close, the heat of his body pressing in, every rational thought evaporates. All that remains is the truth.

"I guess I’ve always believed in doing things the right way. Following the rules, you know?"

I laugh nervously, feeling bare under his intense gaze. “Well, maybe once or twice. But generally, I prefer to play it safe.”

“And why is that?” Abram leans back, giving me space, but the truth is I already miss the way he edged me into a corner, barring me from anything that wasn’t him.

I sigh and try to focus on not wanting him with every fiber in my being. Perhaps I should let him know where I’m coming from, to remind myself of where I stand. A reason could help me put my feet back on the ground, where they belong.

“What made you decide following the rules was the best path?” he asks again.

The question catches me off guard. I’ve never really dug into why. As I search for an answer, I catch the flicker of candlelight across Abram’s sharp features, shadows dancing on his face. The air between us is thick with unsaid things.

“I guess…” I start, my voice barely a whisper, “structure provides safety. That if I stay on the right path, I can avoid…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish.

“Avoid what, Zara?” His hand inches closer to mine.

I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we’ve become—in every way. The wine, the intimacy, Abram’s probing—it’s eroded my carefully built walls.

And now, I might as well tear down what’s left.

“To avoid disappointment,” I admit. “My parents… they loved me, but they died young.”

Abram’s expression softens, his gaze full of understanding. “I’m so sorry, Zara.” His hand tightens around mine, and though I should pull away, his touch soothes me.

I slowly move my thumb, brushing his in return. His eyes follow, pleased, and for the first time, this feels right. Why am I resisting again?

“After they died,” I continue, “I was sent to live with distant relatives. They only cared about my inheritance, not me. So I worked hard, made it through college on my own, and never looked back.”

Abram’s eyes soften with admiration, something deeper flickering within. “And so you became as independent as possible.”

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