Page 3 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
Dr. Overton laughs softly. “It’s not pass/fail, but if it were—yes, you passed. I believe you’re emotionally healthy.”
She turns off the camcorder, deliberate. “I also believe you should go out there and flirt with Nikolai. See where this takes you. I don’t think you’ve given yourself enough time. You’re judging your lack of interest and associating it entirely with the trauma you experienced. But maybe you’re just a late bloomer.
“In my experience, some women simply aren’t interested in the opposite sex until later. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four—it varies. Society sets a number, and it changes with the culture and the times. Just because you weren’t chasing boys down the hallway at sixteen doesn’t mean you don’t like boys. It just means you weren’t interested then.
“If you’re starting to feel that fire, stoke the flames. Do it the natural way. It’s easier, healthier. Because once you have a baby, it’s harder to explore that side of yourself—you’ll be busy, drained, working full-time. Now is the time to explore. See what you like. Enjoy this moment. Don’t let it pass.
“Get Nikolai’s number. Ask him out. What’s the worst thing he could say?”
When the office door closes behind her, I stare at my phone like I expect it to ring any second. Ridiculous. She doesn’t have my number.
She’s not the one with the obsession. She’s not the one who’s installed cameras in every corner of her apartment. She’s not the one who bought the fertility clinic just to keep tabs on her. She’s not the one who tracked down every driver on her bus route and promised them—threatened them—that if anything happened to her, something would happen to them. And their families.
So yeah, she probably wonders why her route’s the slowest in the city. Drivers never speed, never risk a rolling stop, never pull away until she’s safely on the corner and walking toward her door.
I spin the pen between my fingers, up and down, up and down.
My Zara.
This is why I’ve held back. She’s too young, too innocent, too untouched. That draws me in and pushes me away in the same breath.
Fucking yo-yo.
I need to walk away. I know it. But I’m not letting her have a baby with someone else. The doctor called this the easy way, the natural way. I could give her that. I want to give her everything. I want to give her a child.
I want to fill her until she’s overflowing, until my seed implants in her womb and her belly swells with our child—my child. But the reason I want it is the same reason I shouldn’t. My family is large, loud, and dangerous. The Ismailovs have always been prolific; we marry young—or at least marry young women—and keep them close, pregnant, and protected. Especially the boys.
My father put a gun in my hand when I was thirteen, pressed the muzzle to a man’s temple, and told me to pull the trigger. That same year, she was fighting off her mother’s boyfriend. I will find that bastard and make him pay. But at thirteen, I became something I can never undo. They say I didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. They say I pulled the trigger and handed the gun back with a single word: “Next.”
I don’t remember it like that. In my head, I was already gone—retreated to a place I still go when I don’t want to feel. An ice cave. I’ve been there so often I can’t find my way out anymore. I’ve lived in that frozen maze so long it’s cut me off from my family. I love them, but I’ll never tell them that. The day I saw that man’s brains spill across the concrete floor, I learned how easy it is for someone to take everything from you—everything you are, everything you love.
The only antidote is never to get attached.
I wonder what Dr. Overton would tell me about my trauma. How do you come back from something that’s been with you for thirty years? It’s harder to take things from me now, but I still live behind walls. I can protect people from out there. I can’t invite them in.
I go to my cousins’ weddings and feel joy. I go to their christenings and raise a glass. I join them on vacations and holidays. But I’m always the one in the corner, watching, not knowing how to truly join in. Even in the family business, I’m the lone wolf. The one they send to hunt traitors and make them pay. That’s my role. I work alone. And I don’t mind killing. Or retrieving. Mostly killing.
Until my cousin Dimitri asked me to meet him at the coffee shop where the woman he was obsessed with worked. I walked in, and something in me cracked. Usually, I do everything I can to rebuild the ice stronger and thicker. But that day, warmth seeped in, and I decided to see where it would go.
So even though that business is over—my cousin Dimitri has his wife now, Amani, and their baby—for the last six months, I keep returning. After every hunt, the wolf comes back to the same den.
I don’t know how to pursue a woman any more than she knows how to pursue a man. I don’t call women. I don’t make dates. I don’t send flowers or candy. If I did, I would do it for her. I know how to fuck. I know how to make a woman scream in ecstasy. But I’ve never made love.
With her, we’ll both be virgins in that way. We’ll make love for the first time. And then I’ll fuck her—hard, deep, until she screams my name.
I am going to give her what she wants. She will have her baby. And I will have her.
This, I swear.
Zara
“Amani, girl, how are you doing?”
There’s a muffled sound, like paper rattling. A door opens and closes. When she finally answers, her voice is breathless. “Hey, Zara. Everything’s fine. Left your nephew with his father in the bathtub. They’re both having a little too much fun enjoying it, so I’m about to grab the mop. Disaster prevention. But enough about my boring world—what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. The usual—”
“Please stop,” she cuts in. “I’m a busy mom. I don’t have time to beat around the bush. Spill. What happened at the appointment? You know, the fertility clinic you just told me about?”
