Page 73 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
There was a hesitation. I heard it, like even he couldn’t believe I meant it. But he didn’t press. Egor Yezhov knew me too well and sometimes respected me when my decisions turned to stone, refusing to crack or bend.
I spent the whole night awake, staring out over the city. The same city where I had once held her tiny hand crossing the street when I had to pretend to be that kind of father who bought her strawberry ice cream in public places on Saturdays, who taught her how to ride a bike in the alley behind the safe house because the park was never safe.
Katya was my only softness in this fucking brutal world. And I was leaving her.
The next morning, the car was already humming downstairs. My bags were packed, my men waiting. The cold inside me was numbing. But still, I climbed the stairs to her room like a man walking to the gallows.
The door creaked when I opened it, just a crack. Morning light filtered in through the gauzy curtains, bathing her in a golden glow.
She was curled under her blanket, cheeks flushed from sleep, her black hair spread over the pillow like an inky waterfall.
She looked peaceful.
I stepped in, slowly. My boots made no sound. My heart, though? It was a fucking war drum.
I knelt beside her bed, reached out with a hand that had broken men, ended lives, and brushed the back of my knuckles against her cheek. She stirred, mumbled something in her sleep, then settled again.
I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell her I loved her, that I would come back, maybe someday, that everything I was doing was for her.
I stood.
My eyes burned, but I wouldn’t let one tear fall.
I turned to Fedor. He was my most trusted and loyal.
“You watch her with your life, no matter how far we go. I want your eyes and ears on her all the fucking time.”
He nodded once, tight. “Da, Boss.”
And then we left. I didn’t look back. Didn’t let myself hear the sound of her soft breaths as I disappeared from her doorway, because if I had, I wouldn’t have made it down the stairs.
***
I lay still, the sheets tangled around my legs, blinking at the ceiling. I hadn’t moved much. Not in hours. Not in days. Not really since Katya left, which was six months ago.
The ache was still there, dull but constant, like a bullet wound that never quite healed right. I’d taken hits before. Knives to the gut, a bullet to the thigh, a bottle across the head.
But this just felt like a different kind of pain, similar to the one I had felt when she went into a coma, but a thousand times worse than I was willing to admit.
I never expected her forgiveness. Hell, I never even expected understanding. But watching her walk out that day shattered the cold walls I thought I had.
Security was the least of my concerns. Katya was protected. There was a twenty-four-seven surveillance, monitoring her every move, in addition to the dozen trained soldiers I dispatched to keep an eye on her. I recently learned that she started composing her music again, which was good.
She looked like she was getting on fine on her own, like she had years ago, before I came back into the picture.
The regret of feeling like I had lost my daughter again gnawed at me, but what’s done was done. I couldn’t change the past, however much I tried. Mistakes were made, and we were dealing with the consequences the best way we could. Moving forward was the only option.
I shifted the sheets aside and swung my legs off the bed, planting my feet on the warm floor. The air was sharp in my lungs, and I welcomed the sting. As always, pain made things real.
I glanced at the corner of the room. The door was ajar, and I heard the clanking of pots from the kitchen. And it rushed back to me that I still had Elena.
I pulled on a shirt, ran a hand through my hair, and stepped into the hall. My feet moved before my mind caught up.
She stood by the counter, her back to me, hair pulled into a messy knot, and wearing one of my shirts, which clung to her hips. She was focused on something in front of her: a pan filled with scrambled eggs.
The morning light caught her profile just enough. She looked so beautiful. The pregnancy had done a number on her, adding a puff to her neck and cheeks, a rounder curve to her hips, and a fuller pump to her breasts.
Sometimes, watching her made my cock hard until it hurt.
