Page 31 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
There’s a part of me that feels guilty for hiding it from him. He’s the father, after all; doesn’t he have a right to know? At the same time, our situation is so much more complicated than that. He’s not just the father; he’s my kidnapper, and I know I don’t owe him anything.
“You’ve been hiding it from me,” he growls. “This entire time, you’ve known, and you’ve kept it from me.”
I hate arguing like this when I’m lying here in a hospital bed. The monitor at my bedside beeps in the silence. “I wasn’t hiding it. I just chose not to tell you. It’s not like this is the ideal situation for having a baby, is it? You can’t expect me to just rushto you with a positive pregnancy test like we’re married, like this was something we planned.”
With no idea how he would react, and a very good idea of how my family would react, keeping this news to myself for as long as possible seemed like the only sensible choice. He needs to see reason about this.
He doesn’t respond. I turn my head to see him and find him staring at me with that same hard expression, his jaw clenched. For the millionth time, I wish I could read his mind. Even after all these days together, I can’t decode him.
“The doctor says I can take you home now,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll let her know you’re ready.”
With that, he steps out into the hallway, and I’m alone for a minute, watching my elevated heart rate beat on the monitor. I would’ve preferred his temper to that cold response. At least then I would have some idea how he’s feeling. Does he want me to get rid of the baby? Does he want me to keep it? Or does he not care at all beyond making his plan for me a little more complicated?
The door opens, and I sit up, but it’s only the nurse coming to remove the monitors. She moves with brisk efficiency, unwrapping the cuff around my arm and the clip from my finger.
“We’ll send you home with painkillers and antibiotics,” she says, helping me stand. “You can expect a full recovery, but I wouldn’t try jumping back into activity too soon. Better to let it heal fully than to rush things. Any questions at all, and you can give us a call, okay?”
I nod numbly and let her lead me out of the room, my arm in a sling. I feel absurd in my hospital gown and socks. Timofey is waiting in the lobby with a white paper bag of medicine in one hand. His shirt is torn, and he’s covered in blood. I realizeit’s probably mine, from when he carried me into the hospital. Sometimes, he’s so tender and caring, like he’d do anything in the world for me. It gives me whiplash when he reverts to this mode.
“Got her from here?” The nurse pats me on my good arm.
“I do,” he replies, “thank you.”
At least he’s as curt with her as he is with me. He holds up a hand to stop me in the doorway, craning his head around the parking lot before he lets me go outside. Checking for more of those men, I realize with a start. Are we safe anywhere? At this point, I don’t know if they’re after me or after Timofey, but either way, it seems I’m in the crosshairs.
He doesn’t say a word to me as we get into the car. At first, I can pretend it’s because he’s focused on the surroundings, on making sure no one is following us, but as the silence stretches on, it becomes obvious that he’s in no mood to talk. I let him stew in the quiet on the long drive back to the mansion.
We pull up into the garage and I walk through into the house, following behind Timofey. Still not a word. He sets my bag of medication on the kitchen counter and pours two glasses of water, putting them beside the bag.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for one of the glasses. It will take some getting used to, only having one good arm. And who knows how long it’ll be before I can surf again.
My poor surfboard, I think, remembering how I’d dropped it when Timofey had first grabbed me in the parking lot. And now? I don’t know when I’ll be allowed to go out to the beach again. I miss the sand between my toes and the salt wind in my hair. I miss catching the perfect wave.
All of that is compounded by my current misery as Timofey ignores me, not even responding to my thanks. He drinks his water with his back to me.
“Are you really just not going to talk to me the entire time?” I say, my temper rising.
I’m in this situation because of him, away from my family, my home, and the one hobby that kept me going through this constrained life of mine, and now he has the nerve to ignore me because I kept a secret from him?
He doesn’t respond. I resist the urge to throw my cup at his back, barely.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, moving around to his side and getting into his space so he has to really work to ignore me. “You think I should’ve found you the second I got the news? I didn’t have your phone number, and I already knew you were an Abashin. What part of that situation screams, share the happy news?”
He grunts but doesn’t even look at me.
“Tell one of my family’s rivals that I’m carrying his baby? I’d just found out. I had no idea what to do, but yeah, obviously telling you wasn’t my first thought. You can’t blame me for that!”
I expect the silence, but I keep egging him on, hoping that if I needle him just right, it’ll bring out something from him other than this. “And then not long after, you show up like some kind of stalker. Was I supposed to tell you then?”
As my volume rises, my words start to echo around the cold, lifeless kitchen. There isn’t a drop of color in this room, all white tile and white appliances. It looks more like a doctor’s office than the actual doctor’s office.
“Or,” I say, leaning in, “was I supposed to tell you when you kidnapped me? Was that the right time?”
When he still doesn’t answer, I laugh, incredulous. This man has some nerve. After everything he’s put me through, he still thinks I’m the one in the wrong here.
“You’re a piece of work, Timofey. If you tried just for one minute to put yourself in my shoes, you’d realize how messed up this is. I’m under no obligation to tell mykidnapperanything. Even if it is your baby.”
Timofey turns around, leaning back against the counter. I have to shift to the side to avoid touching him. His eyes flick over me, then away, and his mouth is set in a hard, determined line.
