Page 59 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
Heads turned in quiet awe, lips curling into faint smiles, as if I were royalty walking down the aisle or some stunning beauty queen on a runway. I moved with measured steps, my spine straight, shoulders slightly tense.
The weight of their lingering gazes pressed against my skin like heat, my eyes pleading with the aisle to end faster. I’d never liked being in the spotlight, never appreciated being the center of attention. Yet, here I was, catching everyone’s eyes, drawing them in like moths to a flame.
Maybe I’d have felt a lot better if I had someone walking me down the aisle—someone to give me away. But I had no one. No father. Not that Marco ever felt like one anyway. Yet, there was still this emptiness on my side that made me feel shallow, incomplete.
At last, I reached the end of the aisle and stopped just in front of Yulian. He offered his hand. I took it, joining him at the altar. Then the priest began, his voice calm and ritualistic as he recited the wedding rites.
Then came the vows. Yulian went first. No hesitation, voice clear and unwavering. “I vow to protect what is mine. To shield you from my enemies—and from myself, if it comes to that. I vow not only love, but loyalty. Not only peace, but survival. You are Bratva now, my responsibility, and as long as I breathe, you will never know suffering ever again.”
The sincerity of his words, the authenticity of his tone, melted my heart. He didn’t just recite mere words for the sake of this ritual. No. He spoke from his heart, and one didn’t need to be a psychic to sense the genuineness of his vow. He meant every syllable. Every word.
He looked at me in a way that assured me he’d do just about anything to keep me safe and make me happy.
Now, it wasmyturn.
I inhaled quietly, meeting his eyes. “I vow to stand beside you—even in the fire. To navigate these uncharted waters with you. I vow to survive it. For our child. And for us. I won’t break.”
Our vows were simple. No grand decorations of love—just the binding words of loyalty, duty, and blood.
The silence that followed was louder than any applause could have been.
Yulian stepped forward and leaned in, his hand squeezing against mine. A second later, he planted a soft, gentle kiss on myforehead—slow and deliberate. I shut my eyes, feeling his lips on my skin and the shiver that sprinted down my spine.
Someone clapped once from the crowd, and then the others followed, bursting into a round of applause. Polite and measured. Bratva fashion.
My heart felt like it was sinking into wet concrete, and my eyes wouldn’t leave the floor. I couldn’t raise my head, couldn’t look at him—too afraid of what I’d find glinting in his gaze or dancing in the depths of his eyes.
He held my hand firmly as we descended the steps outside the church. In the distance, the sun melted into the horizon, casting a golden glow over the cityscape. I forced a smile—the most genuine that I could muster, slightly bowing my head and waving at our guests.
Again, I was in the spotlight, except this time, I wasn’t alone; I had my husband by my side, holding my hand every step of the way. Literally. At the base of the steps, he paused by the waiting car, fingers locked to mine. I wasn’t sure what exactly he was telling his men, but they paid rapt attention when he spoke, his voice low and even.
It didn’t matter what he was saying to them. I had a few questions that kept me up late at night, and they wouldn’t stop echoing in my head.
Was all of this—the wedding—about the baby? Did he only marry me because he felt obligated to, because I carried the heir to his empire in my womb? What exactly was his motive for asking me to be his wife?
Things were a lot easier when all we did was fight and banter. But ever since the incident with Marco Moretti—the kidnapping, the attempted abortion, and the bullet I fired that changed my life—nothing had been the same.
Everything feels colder now. Different. And far too serious. I used to speak my mind freely, ask questions, yell at him, and tense back and forth about whatever.
Not anymore.
Back then, those barbed words and snarky remarks had a subtle way of making everything seem lighter, like none of it was that deep.
Now, it all just feels…heavy.
Maybe even too heavy.
Later that night, in the quiet of our new shared room, I stood at the balcony, arms wrapped around my chest. The cool breeze brushed against my skin, and my face tilted slightly upward toward the inky sky.
Behind me, my husband was changing out of his suit in silence—his moves fluid and familiar. His presence filled the room, the scent of his cologne wafting through the air, grounding me in reality.
My heart was hammering in my chest, my mind thinking about a million things at once. Maybe I was the reason for this loud silence. Maybe I was the reason we no longer exchanged witty comments.
Was I pushing him away?
Was I being unbearable—too much to handle?
This uncertainty was killing me, these questions threatening to rip my mind to shreds. I couldn’t bring myself to mention it, couldn’t even start a decent conversation with the man I had just married.
