Page 44 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
I wasn’t being sarcastic when I said I was sorry about what happened to his sister. I really was, because I knew what it was like losing a loved one, the pain, the guilt, and the anger. Listening to him narrate the incident ended up opening my own wound—the wound I long buried.
Maybe this was the reason I felt drawn to him the first time we met at Ink Ritual. We both shared something in common.
Loss.
Our story wasn’t all that different if you thought about it. I lost my mom at the hands of my father—a man I trusted. He lost his sister at the hands of his best friend—a man he trusted.
Perhaps we were more alike than we thought.
That incident changed him, changed his view of life, turned him into this ruthless monster. The same way losing my mother messed with my head and planted the seed of hatred in my heart toward my father. For a long time, I resented him for what he did, and up until now, I’d yet to let go. I couldn’t see that ever happening anyway.
I’d spent a few days here, under Yulian’s care and protection. And despite myself, the cold hostility I clung to at first was starting to thaw. Just a little bit.
I hated it.
I hated that I was beginning to get used to this place, this environment. I hated that the walls had seemed to stop closing in on me, that the entire mansion no longer seemed like a prison. The air that was once so toxic was now filled with the aroma of delicious meals from the kitchen and the scent of fresh flowers from the garden.
When I moved, the guards or the maids around would bow their heads in reverence like I was the queen of this castle. They were nice to me—all of them, maids and guards alike. Including the three guys with a grudge against me: Andrea, Viktor, and Ilya. The victims of my fury.
Andrea was the man I kicked in the nuts; Viktor was the one whose nose I broke the night they both kidnapped me. And Ilya, well, he was the guard whose face I clawed my nails into down in the basement.
Strange how I memorized their names now, how they were the closest to me out of all the guards. They smiled at me more than the others. Not some half-baked plastic grin to mask their true intentions. No. Real, genuine smiles. Same as the maids.
Sometimes, I wondered if this was an alternate version of the same mansion from a week ago.
And then there’s Yulian, an almost entirely different man altogether. He didn’t talk much; he didn’t have to. However, the look in his eyes each time he was around me was a clear indication that something had changed about him.
For some reason, he would bring my meals himself without sending one of the maids. And honestly, a huge part of me enjoyed having him around. Of course, we still fought over stupid things every now and then. But I enjoyed our banter. I enjoyed getting under his skin and watching his cheeks flare up with anger.
Fighting and cussing each other out became just another Tuesday for us. And it was almost impossible to have a decent conversation without one of us getting on the other’s nerves.
Gradually, I found myself getting used to this place, these people, and the man who stole me to get even with my father. My father, who had yet to come and find me and save me. The oldman didn’t give a shit about me, didn’t care enough to storm this place and get me out. But then again, I wasn’t surprised at all.
Yes, Yulian had thrown me into his dungeon at first, but so far, staying here beat living in my father’s mansion.
I shouldn’t be so comfortable with my situation; I should keep trying to find another way out. But I couldn’t—I didn’t want to. Yulian was right. I was safer here under his care and protection. Besides, now that I was carrying his child, there was no place on earth that he wouldn’t find me, even if I ran away.
So, why should I complicate things for myself?
These past few days had been different. Yulian had pulled stunts that I didn’t see coming, and that thawed my heart. He’d been more observant, somehow remembering things I said offhand, barely muttered in passing.
Like the soup.
Minestrone alla genovese.
I’d mentioned it earlier, saying it reminded me of some tiny hole-in-the-wall place my mother and I visited when I was thirteen.
Pesto stirred into the broth, vegetables soft but not soggy, that comforting hit of parmigiano melting in every spoonful. I hadn’t had it in years. Maybe it was the pregnancy that made me crave the soup after all this time, but the thought of it alone made my mouth water.
I didn’t realize how seriously Yulian took the whole soup thing until he brought it in just two days ago. He just set it on my table and left. At first, I thought it was a regular dish prepared by the incredibly great chef. But then, the distinct aroma wafted into my nostrils.
I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was the exact soup I mentioned in passing, and I couldn’t stop staring at the plate. Oh, that warm and herby smell was way too nostalgic. I wasn’tsure what prompted that smile on my face; was it the soup itself, or Yulian’s gesture?
Whatever it was, I was grateful, and I ate that soup down to the very last spoonful.
It didn’t stop there, the surprises and kind gestures.
Next was the cioccolato gelato, which I had said I was craving three days ago. He sent the maids to bring it to my room yesterday. It was intentional—this attention he paid to details.
