Page 73 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

She hesitates, her brow furrowing slightly. “I don’t think so,” she says after a moment. “I’d like it to be a surprise.”

I nod, leaning back against the couch. “Then what kind of names are you thinking?”

Her smile falters slightly, and she looks down at her hands. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Would it need to be… Russian?”

The hesitation in her voice is clear, and I sit up straighter, my gaze narrowing slightly. “You can call the baby whatever you want,” I say firmly. “It’s your choice.”

She looks up at me, her expression uncertain. Wouldn’t it be strange? A child with your name, your legacy, but—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt gently, reaching out to take her hand again. “This baby is ours, Hannah. Whatever you name them, they’ll carry both of us with them.”

Her lips curve into a small, grateful smile, and she nods. “Okay,” she says softly.

“Good,” I reply, squeezing her hand lightly before letting it go.

The fire crackles softly, casting a warm glow over the room as we sit together, the weight of the day slowly easing. For the first time in a long time, I feel something close to peace.

Chapter Twenty-Five - Hannah

The days blur into a rhythm, each one marked by the quiet preparations for a life that hasn’t yet arrived but already feels like the center of my world. I spend my time folding and refolding tiny clothes, running my hands over soft blankets, and arranging the nursery that Makar insisted on setting up weeks ago.

The room smells faintly of fresh paint, the soft cream walls illuminated by the golden glow of a small lamp. It’s cozy, inviting—a far cry from the coldness I first felt in this house. As I sit in the rocking chair Makar had delivered without a word, smoothing my hand over my belly, I can’t help but feel a mix of hope and trepidation.

Motherhood feels impossibly big, as though I’m standing at the edge of a vast ocean with no idea how to swim. Yet, every flutter, every kick from the baby inside me reassures me that I’ll find a way.

A faint knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see Makar standing in the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted by the hall light. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes soften slightly as they drift to my belly.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, his voice low.

“No,” I say, gesturing for him to come in.

He steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over the carefully arranged furniture and the soft toys stacked neatly on a shelf. “You’ve been busy.”

“I want everything to be ready,” I reply, brushing my hand over the armrest of the rocking chair.

Makar nods, moving to stand beside the crib. He runs a hand over the edge of the wood, his movementsuncharacteristically gentle. “It’s… nice,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter than usual.

I smile faintly, watching him. “You’re allowed to say it’s beautiful, you know.”

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering across his face. “It’s practical.”

“Of course it is,” I say, chuckling softly. “Everything in this house has to be practical.”

His lips twitch as though he’s suppressing a smile, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to look at me, his blue eyes sharp but not cold.

“You’re worried,” he says, not as a question but as a statement.

I sigh, leaning back in the chair. “I’m terrified,” I admit, my voice trembling slightly. “There’s so much I don’t know—about being a mother, about raising a child, about… all of this.”

Makar steps closer, his hands slipping into his pockets. “You’ll be fine,” he says simply.

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one carrying a tiny human inside you.”

His gaze drops to my belly, and for a moment, his expression softens into something almost vulnerable. “No,” he says quietly. “I’ll be the one protecting both of you.”

The weight of his words settles over me, a quiet reassurance that warms something deep inside my chest.

“What about you?” I ask, my voice softer now. “Do you ever worry?”

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