Page 32 of The Bratva Contract
“Here,” I say, the word coming out sharper than I intend. This isn’t unfolding the way I rehearsed, and any illusion of control slips through my fingers. I wait while he lifts the lid. He removes the tiny silver rattle with surprising delicacy, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it were a priceless artifact.
“I’m pregnant,” I say, barely above a whisper. “With our child.”
I watch his face break into a rare, joyous smile; happiness and surprise chase across those hard features. He leans in and kisses me softly reverently.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Thank you for this child, for the life we’ll protect with everything we have.”
I nod, suddenly overcome. I blink hard, willing the tears away. A sniff slips out, and I cover it with a quick cough.
“It’s just the damned hormones,” I snap when concern flickers in his eyes. “I cried yesterday because I put too much marmalade on my toast.”
“Did you really?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not a crier. There’s no use in it.”
He releases a gusty sigh, and I wonder what it means. I don’t ask; I’m still trying to distance myself from the messy feelings that keep threatening to spill over. “You can cry,” he says quietly. “With me.”
“Why would I want to? I have everything,” I say, and even I hear how defensive I sound. “I’m wealthy, successful, a newlywed with a powerful husband, and a child on the way.”
“You seem upset,” he says. I realize it’s probably the first time he’s asked about my feelings. Maybe he’s just as uncomfortable with the subject as I am. I can share the most intimate acts with Dima, yet revealing my innermost thoughts, my fears, feels vast and terrifying.
The waiter sets down our plates, and I pick at the smoked salmon and sweet carrots. The food tastes wonderful, but my stomach turns. Irritated, I set my fork aside and sip my club soda. Dima notices, summons the server, and murmurs something. The man returns with ginger ale and plain crackers, whisking away the fragrant plate. I close my eyes for a second, accept the sharp, fizzy drink, and swallow gratefully. A few nibbles of the crackers calm my stomach. I sink back into the sofa, not posing, not trying to be sexy or fearsome. I lounge against the cushions and shut my eyes. He says nothing, and neither do I. He saw my nausea and acted quickly; the simple kindness comforts me more than he can imagine. If I try to tell him how much it means, I know I’ll start sobbing like an idiot.
After a minute, the tension drains from my body. I’m safe; not puking in this beautiful dress, not being screamed at the way my father would have. Only a flicker of embarrassment lingers. I sit up, take another sip, and remind myself to act normal, as if he hasn’t just pulled off a quiet act of heroism.
“Thank you, Dima,” I say. It’s strange to say it, and to mean it.
“You’re welcome.” He answers with quiet reserve, dignified. It helps. If he makes another emotional display like kissing my hair and thanking me, I’ll panic and act like a bitch.
“I made an appointment with my doctor for next week, to make sure everything’s okay and to get a due date,” I tell him.
“Text me the time and place, I want to come,” he says, and I don’t expect that. His involvement surprises me. I assumed I’d carry and deliver the baby on my own. I thought excellent care and comfort from his side would end with conception. The idea of him sitting through a gynecology appointment and seeing me in a paper gown, feet in stirrups, throws me completely.
“Why, so you can make sure it’s yours?” I snap.
“No.” He frowns. “You’re pregnant with our first child. There’s a lot we don’t know yet, and you can’t predict how you’ll feel. Beyond wanting to hear the heartbeat myself, I want to be there to support you.”
“All I have to do is lie there and open my legs,” I say sarcastically.
“Why do you insist on being difficult?” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. I know he’s thinking what a pain in the ass I am, but I can’t help it. I’m freaking out over this. “You can admit to me that you’re afraid instead of pushing and provoking.”
“Why?” I demand.
“Because you’re safe with me, Karinka,” he says matter-of-factly. As if I should know this, as if I have ever known safety or loyalty from anyone. I shake my head, unable to speak.
“Look at me,” he commands, and my head lifts almost against my will. His icy eyes lock on mine, and I feel their chill. “This is not easy for either of us. We were raised in the same world, taught to grab whatever power we could and never to expect kindness. We survived, and we’re here. We’ll do better for our child. He’ll have his parents’ attention, not merely presents and orders to stay out of the way.” He sighs again. “It will be work, because both of us are self-contained, prickly.” He gives a half smile, and I picture myself as a hedgehog bristling at him. The image leaves me indignant and almost laughing.
“You will not be there,” I say. “The child and I will be in the country. You said as much.”
“That I want him to have space to play outdoors, yes. That doesn’t mean you’ll be sent away. Did you truly think I waspacking you off to another house, out of sight?” His voice turns hard, and suddenly I’m on familiar ground; anger is what I know.
“Why would I think otherwise? Your only use for me has been to get me pregnant. You wanted my father’s bratva and my womb. Once I give you a child, you’re done with me.” I spit the words so he won’t hear my voice break.
“I am not done with you. I will never be done with you.” The words grind out between his clenched teeth. He seizes my arm, furious. “You are not free to leave once you have this child.”
“Because you bought me? I’m paid for, with a ring and this bracelet? Three days in Croatia and a few hours of fucking me since then? When have you ever acted like you cared who I was, except as the incubator for your heir?” The words pour out hot.
“If that’s what you think, you’re not as clever as you believe,” he says, and just like that he’s ice-cold again and calculating, the same man I met in my father’s dining room months ago. He drops my arm as though I disgust him, then resumes eating while I pick at my crackers. The crackling heat between us, the conflict, I’ve missed it. I crave the full force of his intensity and passion, even if only for twenty minutes before he leaves my room. What he’s offering, co-parenting, kindness, consideration, is impossible for me. I’m too broken and jagged from a lifetime of being unwanted, acting outrageous just to be seen. The patterns run too deep, and I refuse to spend years in therapy weeping about my first pony or some other bullshit. That isn’t who I am. If that’s what he expects, he’s doomed to disappointment.
