Page 21 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let him see me break. “Then just do it,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it. Stop playing these games.”

For a moment, the room is silent, the tension thick enough to choke. His gaze locks on to mine, unreadable, and the weight of his presence presses down on me like a physical force.

Then, without a word, he raises the gun and presses it against my temple.

My breath catches, my entire body trembling as the cold metal bites into my skin. His face is so close now that I can see every detail—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his brow, the glint of something dark and dangerous in his eyes.

“Be very careful what you wish for, Hannah,” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with menace. “Because I don’t make empty threats.”

Chapter Eight - Makar

Hannah’s breath trembles as I press the barrel of the gun to her temple. Her defiance is gone now, replaced with fear and something else—resignation, maybe. A shame. She’s young, her life barely started, and yet here she is, standing at the edge of death because of her choices.

Her skin is warm beneath the cold steel of the gun as I trace it slowly along the side of her face. The faint line of her jaw, the smooth curve of her neck—I follow them absently, detached from what comes next.

“It’s a pity,” I murmur, my voice low and calm. “You had your whole life ahead of you. Now….”

I don’t finish the sentence. There’s no need. The gun lingers just beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at me. Her brown eyes are wide, tears threatening to spill, but she holds my gaze, her lips trembling.

“Makar,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

The sound of my name on her lips is startling. Notboss,notsir,butMakar. It cuts through the cold detachment I’ve built around myself, sharp and unexpected.

“What?” I say, my tone clipped.

She swallows hard, her hands trembling at her sides. “I’m pregnant.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, and my grip on the gun falters slightly. I stare at her, my mind racing.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say, my voice dangerously low.

“I’m not lying,” she says quickly, her voice shaking. “I swear. I just found out, and—”

“How long?” I interrupt, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

She hesitates, her lips parting as she struggles to find the words. “A month,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

A month. The child barely exists at this point—a cluster of cells, not even a heartbeat. I grit my teeth, my jaw tightening as I try to process what she’s telling me.

I’m not going to kill an unborn child.Even I have limits.

Her breath catches, a flicker of hope crossing her face. “It’s your child,” she says, her voice firmer now.

I laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. “Is that so? How convenient for you to bring that up now.”

“I’m not making it up,” she insists, her voice rising. “It’s yours.”

“Prove it,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.

She hesitates again, but only for a moment. “It happened a month ago,” she says. “At the Ember House. The night I went into the VIP room to serve drinks. You were drunk, but you weren’t so far gone that you didn’t know what you were doing.”

The memory stirs faintly at the edge of my mind—flashes of that night. The low light of the VIP lounge, the burn of vodka, the softness of someone’s skin beneath my hands. I took her to my hotel room, I remember now.

I close my eyes briefly, the image growing clearer.

“You took my virginity,” she continues, her voice trembling but unrelenting. “Then you left. You didn’t even look back.”

I open my eyes, my gaze locking on to hers. Her face is pale, her chest rising and falling quickly, but her words carry weight, cutting through the haze of doubt.

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