Page 3 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

"Your taste is… eclectic," she comments, running a finger along a mahogany sideboard with neon inlay work.

I can't help but be entranced by the graceful movement of her hand. "I prefer to think of it as diverse," I reply, my voice huskier than I intended.

“If it’s diverse that you want,” she says, breaking into a smile that cuts out the sweetest dimples on her round cheeks. “Then it is diverse that you’ll get.”

Oh, I want a lot more than diverse,I find myself thinking, my eyes running to her full lips.

She turns away, heading to another room. I follow Zara into the study, my senses heightened by her proximity. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, a constant reminder of her presence even when she moves ahead of me. I watch as she assesses the room, her keen eyes taking in every detail.

"This space has potential," she muses. "But it lacks… personality. It feels disconnected from the rest of the house."

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "And how would you suggest we remedy that?"

She turns to face me, a challenging glint in her eye. "Well, Mr. Zolotov, that depends on what kind of man you are. Do you want this room to intimidate or inspire?"

The question catches me off guard. I've never given it much thought, but her line of reasoning makes me self-reflect. "Perhaps a bit of both," I admit. "I appreciate beauty, but in my line of work, a certain… edge is necessary."

“And what is it you do?” she asks, tilting her head curiously.

Well, I can’t exactly come out and tell her I lead a Bratva family now, can I? She’ll probably run in the other direction.

And so, I go with a concealed truth, omitting a detail or two irrelevant to our situation. “I run a family business,” I tell her. “In a highlycompetitiveenvironment.”

What I mean to say isdangerous.

Zara nods, a small smile playing on her lips. "That must be quite something,” she says, almost wistfully, a look of her being elsewhere crossing her eyes briefly. But within a few seconds, she finds her composure again, leaving me curious as to the nature of her fleeting thoughts.

“For now,” she says, “let's start with the artwork. Something provocative yet refined. It should make a statement without screaming it. What do you think of Kandinsky?"

Instantly, I’m impressed. I was thinking of Kandinsky just this morning, and to know she read me this well is refreshing. I canalmostshut my brain off, trust her to take over with designing my home.

As she speaks, moving gracefully around the room, I find myself captivated by more than just her words. The way she carries herself, confident yet unassuming, is so different from the posturing I’m used to.

"Tell me, Zara," I comment, genuinely intrigued by how her brain works. "Where did you study again?"

She pauses, turning to face me. A small flicker of uncertainty crosses her face. “Nowhere famous,” she admits, tilting her head a little. She bites her lower lip, a nervous tick, I assume. And the corner of her lip turns red, so delicious and red. I look away, afraid she might be able to read my mind.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say gruffly. “It is the results that matter. America is, after all, meritocratic.”

“Yes, I suppose,” she says gently. “Quite different from Russia, isn’t it?”

“How did you know I was from Russia?” I ask, intrigued.

“Your accent.” She shrugs.

So, she’s beautiful, smart, and perceptive. I find myself drawn in even further, curious to see where this will lead.

"In that case, I better work on it," I concede, a small smile tugging at my lips. "And please, call me Abram. Mr. Zolotov makes me feel older than I’d like to be."

I instantly regret bringing in age. I worry. Might she find me too old now that I pointed it out? She’s young, early twenties. And I? Thirty-five, to be precise.

But Zara's eyes meet mine softly, holding my gaze for a moment longer than necessary. "Abram, then. Shall we continue to the next room?"

This is the first time she says my name, a sound so thrilling on those juicy lips, and the truth is, I’m hooked. My brain goes on overdrive, thinking of all the million ways I’d love to hear her say it.

Chapter 2 - Zara

Abram's fingers graze my arm as he guides me down a dimly lit hallway. "And this," he says while pointing at a door toward the end of the hall, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine, "is the bedroom."

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