Page 40 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
He stepped forward, closing the distance between us with an unreadable expression. “You just don’t know when to give up, do you?” he asked, his voice low and even.
In his eyes was a glimpse of something that resembled intrigue—fascination.
I swallowed, struggling to remain as composed as I could, even though I was falling apart inside.
His expression darkened. “Did you really think that you could get away from me just like that?” He paused, his gaze sweeping over my body. “I underestimated you once. Good thing I didn’t do that again.”
I tried to breathe, but even that felt impossible right now. I was weak in the knees, too numb to speak or move.
His hand snapped out, and he gripped my jaw, hard and firm. Yulian leaned in, his breath brushing against my skin. “Try this again, and I’ll chain you to the bed,” he whispered in my face, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
Somehow, I could feel that he was kidding—if I fooled around again, there was no telling what he’d do to me.
Yulian pulled away and retreated without another word.
I let out a deep, long sigh of relief, bending over with my hands on my knees. It was over for me now; there was no escaping this mansion. This was my one shot, and I blew it. I was stuck with this monster now, alone and defenseless.
Dad wasn’t coming for me—no one was.
I was on my own, at the mercy of Yulian Tarasov.
Chapter 16 – Yulian
I sat alone in the quiet stillness of my study, with the faint scent of aged paper drifting through the air. An untouched glass of vodka sat on the table, the ice long melted as the desk lamp cast a golden glow against the towering bookshelves.
The chair squeaked beneath my weight, my fingers absentmindedly drumming on the table’s surface. My mind was a whirl of tangled thoughts.
I wasn’t sure why, but the scar on my ribcage was starting to burn again—pulsing with a dull ache as if memory itself had claws. My jaw locked in a bid to suppress the images flooding my mind. I tried to fight back the awful memory creeping back in—a memory I buried decades ago.
The harder I fought against it, the more my ribs ached. I reached to the wound with my hand, eyelids fluttering shut. Those buried images started to surface, forcing me to remember the one incident I desperately wished I could forget forever.
I could still hear the sound of her voice in my head, her innocent laughter before the attack. She was just fourteen, and I’d promised to keep her safe, to always protect her.
But I failed.
I failed my own sister because I trusted the wrong person.
I tightened my jaw, refusing to take that trip down my memory lane. There was nothing to find there but pain and regret. Yet, these images in my head were relentless. Glimpses of that afternoon flashed in my mind.
Snow. Lots of it.
My younger sister, Maria—her blue eyes and charming smile.
Hector, my best friend—his blade swinging violently at me.
Blood.
Maria’s screams.
The avalanche.
“…Yulian…Yulian?” A familiar voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
I blinked back to the present, panting, cold sweat dampening my forehead. My gaze settled on Ester as she stood across my desk, eyes narrowing at me. I glanced behind her to find the door halfway open—I must have been so deep in my thoughts that I didn’t hear her come in.
Her gaze dropped to my ribcage, probably wondering why my hand was pressed against it. She watched me in silence, her expression softer than it had ever been since her arrival at the mansion.
I hated that she saw me like this—rattled, almost vulnerable. Breaking eye contact, I cleared my throat, reached for the glass of vodka on my table, and took a sip. “How long have you been standing there for?” I asked.
