Page 8 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
There’s no way I can tell my family, and there’s no way I can tell Timofey either. He’s an Abashin, and he’s clearly a dangerous man. It’s part of what attracted me to him in the first place—that air of danger. But I never imagined it would end up like this. It doesn’t even seem possible to get pregnant from a single night, a single mistake. We should’ve used protection, but I was so caught up in the moment that it was the last thing on my mind. Given my totally dead sex life, I had no reason to be on birth control.
Pregnant. There were choices, of course, I wasn’t completely trapped. Even if I kept the baby, I didn’t have to tellmy family the truth about the father’s identity. I could make it up, tell them I had no idea who the father was. They’d be pissed at the risk I’d taken, but it’d be a lot better than telling them it was an Abashin who’d done it.
I don’t believe Timofey was just walking by, either. It feels like too much of a coincidence, especially considering his Bratva ties. I think he tracked me down. Goosebumps prickle along my skin at the thought. Maybe it’s paranoid, but I can’t help wondering if he knew who I was even before we slept together. Was he at that club to find me?
“You’re quiet today.” Marlen interrupts my thoughts, and I realize we’re not far from my apartment.
Technically, I can walk to the beach from my apartment—it’s the reason I picked that one, but my brothers rarely allowed that.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I answer honestly. I don’t think I’ve had a proper night’s sleep since finding out I’m pregnant. I feel like I’ve fallen into a spider’s web, and any move I make now is going to ripple out. “How was the gallery?”
One of my family’s interests is in the art world. There’s a lot of money to be made in art, both legitimately and illegitimately, and my brothers like to utilize both methods. We own a few galleries along the boardwalk, but I know their ties go well beyond the Miami coastline to international markets.
“Not willing to sell at the moment,” he replies, turning into the parking lot for my apartment complex. “But I think we’ll manage to convince them.”
Through whatever means necessary goes unspoken. I don’t ask, they don’t tell, and it works out for everyone. Marlen walks me to the front door. It’s over the top careful, but I’ve long given up arguing about it.
“Take care.” He waits until I’m fully inside before leaving.
It’s so infuriating being treated like this. I didn’t ask to be born into this family. I don’t take part in any of it, yet I’m still in danger at all times. My run-in with Timofey proves that. On the flip side, this life has its perks, and I can’t deny that as I step into my apartment. Windows that overlook the ocean. Spacious, open floor plan. Walls covered in expensive art gifted from my brothers.
Would I trade all this for a life I was in charge of? A useless thought exercise. Short of changing my identity and moving far, far away, there’s no escape for me.
I brew a cup of herbal tea and plop down into my big, squishy armchair beside the window. Pops of neon orange, pinks, and yellows liven up the otherwise pristine white of the apartment, and I love them even more because I chose them all myself.
“But you, little one,” I say, peering down at my stomach, “weren’t a choice at all, were you? You were one night of very bad judgment.”
Which, I guess, is sort of a choice in itself.
***
I’m not sure which is the bigger high this morning—sneaking out under my brothers’ noses or the surfing itself. The waves are perfect, at shoulder height, and heavy. The water is clean and smooth, and the sunrise is just hitting the horizon, so it’s early enough that I’m one of only a couple surfers out here.
Moving out on my own came with one condition: absolute transparency about my whereabouts. My brothers installed atracker on my phone that alerts them anytime I leave my apartment, and that’s on top of the over-the-top security system my apartment has, which I know reports directly to them.
So, I disabled the security system and left my phone at home. It feels reckless and absolutely intoxicatingly free. I can’t do it too often or they’ll catch on, but for now, I’m on my own. I paddle out and get ready to catch the next wave.
It’s a big one, overhead, and a thrum of adrenaline powers my legs as I hop onto my board. Can the baby feel this? Probably not yet, but I like the thought of her growing in harmony with the waves, a water baby before she’s even born. She. I’m already thinking of it as a girl.
Does that mean I’m going to keep her? I ride the wave till the end and turn to paddle back out. There’s no easy solution to this problem. Especially not when I don’t know what Timofey’s motives are. It’s hard to believe running into him at the nightclub was purely accidental, and that thought has me on edge. If this is part of some bigger plot from the Abashins, I have to tell my brothers what happened. Otherwise, I could put them at risk.
On the other hand, if it was just a chance encounter, telling my brothers could actually start trouble between the families, escalating a rivalry to an all-out war. And again, putting my brothers at risk. Maybe the best thing to do is to have the baby and tell them I don’t know who the father is.
These thoughts spin round and around in my mind as I catch wave after wave, pushing my body to the point of exhaustion in hopes it’ll clear my mind. But not even the perfect surf can relieve the pressure. Finally, when my legs start to shake and I bite it trying to catch a wave, I paddle my way back to shore.
I strip off my wetsuit and grab a pair of shorts and a towel from my beach bag, wringing out my hair before twisting it up into a bun. Clad in linen shorts and a bikini top, I make a beeline for the nearest coffee shop, already missing my regular double-shot latte. Decaf just doesn’t hit the same.
There’s a spot for boards outside the shop, and I wedge mine in before ducking inside and ordering a vanilla decaf latte. I get an extra shot of syrup because I deserve to havesomefun still, and maybe a good dose of sugar can make up for the lack of a caffeine boost.
I’ve been away from home for a good two hours, so I should head back soon before my brothers notice I’m missing. They should be occupied—there’s a huge art auction going on a few hours up the coast—but I’m not willing to risk it. Not right now, when I’m already lying about so much more.
Latte in hand, I step back out into the morning sun and grab my board to start the walk home. The boardwalk is quiet at this hour, just a few joggers and dog walkers, so I don’t have to be too paranoid about hitting someone with my board. It’s just a long enough walk to be inconvenient while carrying something so unwieldy, but never enough to deter me from doing it.
I bask in the sunshine and my last few steps of freedom. Once I’m back in my apartment, I’ll have to rearm the security system, and my brothers’ watchfulness will loom over me like a net.But you, little baby, you’re my secret.Something they can’t monitor, can’t see, can’t control. For now. The moment I start to show, they’ll hound me for answers. I just hope I have my story straight by then.
I cut across the parking lot to my building. A strong breeze whips up off the ocean, bending the palm trees that decorate the medians. My board wobbles, taken by the samewind, and I nearly lose my latte trying to control it. Behind me, there’s a screech of tires as someone races way, way too fast through the parking lot.Idiot, I think, then swear as they skid to a stop right behind me, barely two feet away from my legs.
The car door swings open, and a man jumps out. No, not just any man. He’s too big, too broad, too muscular to be anyone but Timofey, and my body recognizes him before my brain does, flooding my system with the hot sludge of adrenaline. Its potent concoction isn’t enough to will my legs to move, not before Timofey grabs me.
