Page 60 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
What is wrong with me? Why am I so unhappy? Why am I so far in my own shell that I can’t see beyond my pain?
I turned around, and there he was, seated on the edge of the bed, stripped from the waist upward. He seemed calm, too calm, but I could tell that there was a storm inside him, one he’dlearned to manage so well. Yulian’s fingers were intertwined, his elbows on his thighs, an air of composure exuding from him.
He stared into space, eyes fixed on something across the room, his mind too far gone. Physically, he was present. Mentally, not so much.
This was supposed to be such a good day and an even better night for us as newlyweds. Yet, here we were, acting like total strangers even after all the hell we’d been through.
I knew how I felt about this man—the intensity of the emotions he’d awakened in me—how beautiful and dangerous that feeling could be. I guess I was afraid to act on it—afraid of what might happen if I let myself bathe in this sea of passion.
Would it drown me?
Maybe I was a coward for shielding myself from a disaster that may or may not happen. Yulian was a Mafia boss like Marco Moretti, and I was carrying his child. Although the man had proven time and time again that he was nothing like Marco, I was still afraid deep down in my heart.
What if he changes later on? What if he becomes just like the man who ruined my life? What then?
I was afraid.
Traumatized.
I’d do anything to protect my baby from having a father like mine. That fear, that trauma…that was my weakness. It was the one thing standing between Yulian and me.
I knew it was wrong to let my past pain affect my present, thereby jeopardizing my future. I just needed a little more time to observe things, to plan ahead, because one thing was clear.
My heart was already in too deep.
Chapter 24 – Yulian
It was chilled in here—the ultrasound room, with its white walls, white light, and white silence. Serene and sterile. Like a morgue but with better lighting.
I stood by the window, arms across my chest, eyes fixed on my wife as she lay back on a padded recliner. Her blouse was tugged just above her belly, her gaze pinned on the monitor to her right.
Beside her, the technician—a blond woman with gentle eyes and an efficient manner—rubbed something that looked like gel on my wife’s belly. Her movement was fluid and smooth, a testament to years of experience and precision.
Ester flinched a bit, a quiet wince escaping her lips. I felt that in my guts, my hands dropping to my sides reflexively, eyes narrowing on my wife. Her safety and that of our baby’s was my major concern—they were my top priority, and I’d do whatever it took to make sure they were safe at all times.
The technician stole a glance at me with a faint grin on her lips, then faced the monitor again, whispering something to Ester.
Girl talk, maybe. Or perhaps, it was something to do with the ultrasound. Whatever the case, Ester shot a quick look in my direction, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her skin shimmered under the soft light, her baby bump beautiful and elegant.
It had been six weeks since the wedding, and the only palpable change was in Ester’s physical appearance. Her belly was beginning to swell; her beauty seemed to deepen in ways that left me in awe, and her skin had taken on a different kind of glow—ethereal and soft.
Aside from that, everything else was pretty much the same between us—quiet, distant. We didn’t argue anymore, andthe ease we once shared was gone, replaced by a heaviness neither of us could name. We no longer teased or challenged each other like we used to. Now, for some reason, this newfound silence was even louder than all the shouting we did before. It was the worst in every way I could think of.
Honestly, I never thought the day would come when I’d miss the sound of her voice mid-argument. Never thought I’d miss her frown—that deadly sneer she wore when she was pissed. The way she locked her jaw, furrowed her brows, and glared at me like she was about to burn the whole house down was nothing but a memory now.
God, I missed the old us. Didn’t think it was possible. But clearly, it was.
“At 20 weeks, everything looks strong and healthy,” the technician’s voice sliced through my thoughts like a knife.
I blinked back to the present, wondering what I’d missed while I was lost in my own thoughts. The room was filled with a soft, steady sound. Alive.
Like a beating heart.
My eyes fell on the monitor, my chest tightening at the image displayed on the screen.
A shape.
A little spine.
