Page 34 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

And I do feel when he presses his lips against mine—everything. The heat of his body, the weight of his gaze, the intense effort he’s been putting into us. It's overwhelming, and I find myself leaning into his touch despite my better judgment.

"You're trembling," Abram observes, pulling away from me, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

"I'm not used to… this," I admit, gesturing vaguely between us.

He smirks. "Good. I want to be the only one who makes you feel this way."

Later that night, Abram drops me off at my house. His goodbye kiss leaves me breathless and weak-kneed.

"Sweet dreams, Darling," he whispers, standing there as I close the door. “Lock up behind yourself, will you?” I hear his possessive command.

I grin and hear footsteps walking away only when the door locks shut.

I throw the keys on the dining table, still dazed from being in Abram's presence. These past few weeks, something between us has changed, though I don’t know what. He’s there by my side every morning, some afternoons, every night. I’ve hardly seen any of my friends, with Abram taking up most of my time.

And the truth is that I’m absolutely giddy with joy—so damn giddy that I’m terrified I’m not afraid. In the past, had a man showered me with such fierce attention, I would have been confused by his intentions. Perhaps bored, even.

With Abram, it feels right. Yet, how easily I accept his attention leaves me wary. After all, what’s changed to make him want to throw aside his entire other life to spend every free second with me?

So lost in my thoughts, I almost jump when my phone rings. Unknown number. Frowning, I answer.

"Hello?"

"Zara? Is that you?"

My blood runs cold. I know that voice—a voice I never thought I'd hear again when I cut her off from any and all manner of contacting me. "Aunt Sarah?" I whisper, shock paralyzing me.

"Oh, thank goodness. I wasn't sure if this was your number."

I grip the phone tighter, my mind reeling. "How did you get this number?" I demand, my voice trembling slightly.

There's a pause on the other end. "I… I asked someone, Dear. But that's not important. What matters is that I've reached you."

Dear?Since when has she started calling me dear?

I lean against the wall, suddenly feeling weak. "What do you want?"

"I was hoping we could meet," Aunt Sarah says, her tone honeyed. "It's been so long, and I've been thinking about you."

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Thinking about me? Or thinking about what you can get from me?"

"Zara, please. That's all in the past. I've changed; we've all changed. Can't we just—"

"No," I cut her off, memories of their treatment flooding back. The cold shoulders when I asked why the properties my parents left me had been sold off only for me to never see a dime of it, the whispered insults and silent treatments when I asked for new clothes and shoes as I outgrew them, being kept on a budget so tight that I had to work part-time since I turned fourteen, never being taken on vacations or dinners out with the rest of the family, the greedy looks when my inheritance was mentioned. "We can't."

"But—"

"I said no." My voice is firm, but inside, I'm shaking. "Don't call me again."

I end the call abruptly, sliding down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor. My chest feels tight, and I struggle to breathe normally. How dare she? After everything they put me through, how dare she try to waltz back into my life?

I stare at my phone, half expecting it to ring again. It doesn't, but the damage is done. In just a few minutes, Aunt Sarah has shattered the fragile sense of peace I've been building. And now, sitting alone on the floor in my living room, I feel more vulnerable than I have in years.

The room spins as memories crash over me like relentless waves. I'm six again, standing in a black dress at my parents' funeral, small and lost. Aunt Sarah's hand on my shoulder, her nails digging in just a little too hard when I sob too loud. Uncle Robert's eyes are cold and calculating as he discusses my "future" with the family lawyer. Demanding that they get therights to handle my assets and successfully go to court to gain access when my parents' lawyer said no.

I gulp for air, trying to shake off the past. But it clings to me, a sticky residue I can't wipe away. The loneliness of those years stretches out before me—endless days of tiptoeing around my relatives' moods, nights spent crying silently into my pillow.

"No one will ever truly care about you," Aunt Sarah had hissed once, thinking I was asleep. "You're just a meal ticket."

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