Page 57 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

That terrifies me.

I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to want him.

My hand rests on my stomach as I wander the mansion aimlessly, trying to escape my own thoughts. The baby moves faintly, a reminder of the new life growing inside me, and I smile despite myself.

It’s in this distracted state that I stumble upon a room I haven’t noticed before. The door is slightly ajar, and curiosity pulls me forward.

Pushing it open, I step inside and immediately feel like I’ve entered a different world. The space is smaller than most ofthe rooms in the house, cozier, the walls lined with shelves filled with books and a few carefully arranged objects.

A collection of photographs catches my eye, drawing me closer.

I lean in, studying the images. There’s one of Makar, younger but unmistakable, standing in front of what looks like the same mansion, though it’s brighter, livelier in the picture. He’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt, his expression serious even as a boy, though there’s a faint hint of mischief in his eyes.

I chuckle softly, my fingers brushing over the edge of the frame. He looks… cute. It’s strange to think of him as anything other than the stoic, commanding man he is now, but this picture tells a different story.

Beside him is another boy, younger, grinning wide and full of life. His arm is slung around Makar’s shoulders, and the resemblance is clear—the same messy dark hair, strong nose and full lips. They’re brothers.

Anatoly.

I’ve heard the name mentioned in hushed tones around the house, though never from Makar himself. The boy’s smile is infectious, his energy practically leaping off the photograph. It makes my heart ache, imagining the bond they must have shared, and the pain of losing it.

Will our child smile like that? Will they have Makar’s piercing blue eyes or my brown ones?

The thought startles me, and I step back, my hand instinctively moving to my belly. I close my eyes, trying to picture what our baby will look like, who they’ll take after.

The idea of seeing Makar’s features mirrored in our child stirs something deep inside me—a warmth I don’t know how to explain.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away. I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’m supposed to hate him, not wonder if his smile will be the one our child inherits.

I can’t stop myself.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance toward the door, half expecting Makar to appear. The idea of him finding me here, surrounded by pieces of his past, makes my heart race, though I’m not sure why.

The footsteps fade away, leaving the hallway quiet once more. I let out a slow breath, the tension in my chest easing as I lean against the doorframe. My thoughts are still tangled in the image of Makar as a boy, the serious set of his face, and the bright grin of the younger boy beside him.

A soft voice pulls me from my reverie. “You found Anatoly’s room.”

I turn to see Vera standing a few feet away, her kind eyes watching me carefully. She approaches slowly, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression a mix of nostalgia and sadness.

“His room?” I ask, glancing back toward the photographs.

Vera nods, stepping closer to peer inside the room. “That’s what we used to call this place. It was Anatoly’s favorite spot in the house. He loved to read and collect things—little trinkets he found interesting. Makar kept it the way it was after….” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“After what?” I ask gently, though I already have an idea.

“After Anatoly was killed,” Vera says softly, her voice heavy with emotion. “He was so young.Tooyoung.”

My stomach twists at her words, my hand instinctively moving to my belly. “What happened?”

Vera hesitates, her fingers brushing over the edge of the doorframe. “A rival faction,” she finally says. “They wanted to send a message. Anatoly was innocent, but that didn’t matter to them.”

The weight of her words settles over me like a blanket, suffocating and unbearable. I glance back at the photograph, at the boy who’d been so full of life, and my heart aches.

“It changed Makar,” Vera continues, her voice quieter now. “He was never the same after that. He’d always been serious, responsible, but after Anatoly… he became cold. Ruthless. It was his way of protecting himself—and everyone else.”

I swallow hard, my thoughts racing. This is why he is the way he is. The rules, the control, the need to shield himself from anything and anyone that might hurt him. It’s not just about power; it’s about survival.

“He doesn’t talk about him,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.

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