Page 41 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
“Long enough,” she replied without taking her eyes off me. “Does it hurt?” Her gaze dropped to my ribcage.
“What, are we buddies now?” I took another sip, my tone harsh and unwelcoming. “Weren’t you just about to run away about an hour ago?”
She paused, letting out a long, slow exhale. “You’re right. I was. But that’s because I feel trapped within these walls.”
“So, you’d rather run back to your father’s house?” My brows raised, and my expression darkened. “The same father who hasn’t lifted a finger to find you yet?”
She gritted her teeth and drew a deep breath. “I didn’t have a choice; it’s not like you’re any better than he is. You threw me in a dungeon and left me for dead.”
Ester was calmer now, but I could still hear faint traces of anger in her tone.
“I got you out, didn’t I?” My fingers rubbed my eyes. “I got you cleaned up and checked out by a doctor. I gave you a room with a comfortable bed and had my maids treat you like a queen. What else do you want from me, Ester?”
“My freedom, for starters,” she said, arms across her chest.
“I’m afraid that’s not gonna happen,” I said, a hand still pressed over my wound. “There’s a baby involved now, and there’s no way in hell that I’m letting you out of my sight.”
She scoffed and lowered her head, her index finger tapping against her temple. “So what, I’m just supposed to live here with you?” A scowl formed on her face.
I paused for a while, my gaze locked to hers. “You’re carrying my child, Ester—that changes everything. Including how your father sees you.” I let the words sink in first before asking, “Does he know? Does your father know about us?”
“Thereisno us,” she cut me off, her sharp voice laced with traces of disdain.
Fair enough.
I rephrased, “Does he know about New York?”
Silence.
My lips curled into a faint smirk. “I thought as much.” I rose to my feet, cradling my glass of vodka. “Now, tell me, Ester. How do you think he’s gonna react when he finds out that you’re carrying his enemy’s child?”
Again, silence.
I walked over to the other side of my desk, sipping from my glass. “Do you think he’s gonna throw you a party—pat your shoulder for making him proud?” I leaned against the edge of my table. “Or do you think he’s gonna ask you to get rid of the baby in your womb?”
Her scowl deepened. “I’m not stupid, Yulian. I’m not going back to the Moretti mansion with your baby in my belly.I’m a grown woman, and I can take care of myself and the baby. I don’t need my father or anyone else to do that.”
I set my glass on the table and faced her. “See, that’s where the problem is, Ester; you don’t need your father. But that baby needs theirs.” I pointed at her stomach. “I don’t doubt your ability to raise that child. But it’s my flesh and blood, too. It is my responsibility to keep you both safe.” My hand reflexively pressed against the side of my ribs again.
She locked her jaw, her chest rising and falling with slow breaths. Despite her anger, I could see in her eyes that she knew I was right. Ester was just having a hard time processing it.
Her eyes traced my hand. “What’s the deal with the rib?”
“Nothing,” I replied almost immediately, emptying the remaining vodka down my throat.
“Uh-ha.” She nodded, watching me in silence, clearly trying to figure me out. “I noticed it’s the same spot I tattooed—the knife wound I covered with ink.”
I ignored her and poured myself another glass of vodka. Her curiosity was starting to get under my skin. She was tugging at a memory I was still struggling to suppress.
She continued, “That night, at the tattoo studio, you said you were stabbed by somebody you trusted. What happened?”
I was quiet, fighting back the memories crawling up to the surface. “Why do you wanna know?”
“Just curious to know what had you so distracted you didn’t hear me come in,” she replied, letting out a soft sigh. “Plus, I’m bored, and I’m clearly stuck here with you. So why not?” Ester took a seat on a nearby couch.
She didn’t look like she was going back down until I answered—until I gave in and told her what she wanted to hear. A part of me didn’t want to open up, but these memories wouldn’t stop tugging at my mind.
“I’m no psychologist, but I can sense your struggle,” she said, her eyes pinned on me. “You’re fighting something that doesn’t want to be fought. Take it from me; it’ll mess with your head.”
