Page 52 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

The sound of his footsteps fades as I watch him go, his presence leaving a strange void in its wake.

I turn and head for my room, grateful for the small reprieve. Despite our marriage, Makar has made no move to force me into his space, and for that, I’m thankful. The room I’ve been given is still mine, my small sanctuary in a house that feels more like a gilded cage than a home.

Once inside, I close the door and lean against it for a moment, letting out a slow, measured breath. My reflection stares back at me from the ornate mirror across the room, my features pale and my hair slightly disheveled.

Get it together, Hannah.

I walk to the vanity, dragging a brush through my hair in an effort to tame it. My hands tremble slightly, but I focus on the small, mundane task, letting it center me.

After smoothing down the fabric of my dress, I step back, taking in my appearance. I don’t know why I bother—why I care what I look like when I’m about to face the man who controls every aspect of my life—but the thought nags at me all the same.

My gaze lowers to my stomach, my hand moving instinctively to rest there. It’s still flat, no sign yet of the life growing inside me, but the thought alone is enough to make my chest tighten.

Shaking off the wave of emotion, I turn away and head for the door, my steps steady despite the nervous energy swirling in my chest.

The walk downstairs feels longer than it should, each step echoing in the vast, silent house. When I reach the dining room, my eyes are immediately drawn to him.

Makar sits at the head of the long table, his posture straight, his piercing gaze already fixed on me as I step inside.

For a moment, the weight of his presence threatens to swallow me whole. I square my shoulders and step forward, determined not to let him see the cracks beneath the surface.

The dining room is bathed in the warm glow of the chandelier, the soft light reflecting off the polished wood of the long table. My footsteps are light as I enter, but they still feel loud against the silence that fills the room.

Makar is already seated at the head of the table, his posture as composed and commanding as ever. His sharp blue eyes find mine the moment I step inside, and I fight the urge to fidget under his unwavering gaze.

As I approach, my attention shifts to the place setting in front of me. My breath catches, my heart stumbling in my chest as my eyes land on the dessert waiting for me—a cherry-topped cinnamon roll, the glaze still gleaming and the smell achingly familiar.

It’s just like the ones my mom used to make back in Montana.

For a moment, I forget where I am. The sight of the dessert pulls me back to those afternoons after school, the scent of cinnamon and cherries filling the kitchen as my mom set a plate down in front of me, her smile warm and constant. The memory is so vivid it feels like I could reach out and touch it.

I blink, my throat tightening, and glance at Makar. His expression is as unreadable as ever, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze—something that deepens when he notices my surprise.

“Vera mentioned you missed these,” he says, his tone almost casual, as though he hasn’t just turned my world on its head.

The words are simple, but they hit me harder than I expect. He’s trying to act like it’s nothing, but I know better. This isn’t just a gesture; it’s… thoughtful.

Emotion wells up in my chest, threatening to spill over. Before I can second-guess myself, I step closer to him, my hands reaching out.

I press my face against his chest, clutching the crisp fabric of his shirt as a shaky breath escapes me.

It’s brief—just a moment of closeness, my body trembling slightly as I let the wave of gratitude wash over me.

Makar doesn’t move, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll push me away. But he doesn’t. His body is rigid, his breath steady, and though I can’t see his face, I sense his surprise.

When I finally pull back, I avoid his gaze, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He doesn’t respond right away, but when I glance up, he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. It’s not much, but it’s enough.

“Sit,” he says, his voice calm but with that ever-present hint of command. He gestures toward the chair across from him.

For once, I don’t argue.

I sit quietly, the cinnamon roll in front of me untouched as I try to compose myself. The warmth of Makar’s presence across the table feels heavier than usual, like it’s wrapping around me, holding me in place.

“You’re not eating,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence.

I glance up at him, his expression unreadable. “I was just… remembering,” I say softly.

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