Page 63 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
He shot a quick glance at me, brows rising. “Have you seen the size of this thing?”
A soft breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan left my lips. I was in pain—my back hurt, my ankles ached, and my ribs were sore from the baby’s constant kicks. Not to mention, I hadn’t slept properly in what felt like an eternity.
I was heavier these days, slower—fuckin’ tired all the time—and even the smallest things upset me. The simple acts of walking around or sitting upright had become—well, not sosimple anymore. They were like friggin’ Olympic events. Too tasking. Too daunting.
One of the good things about this new development was Yulian’s mature response to my drama. I may or may not have been a little too overbearing during that period. I snapped at him at every chance I got, complained excessively when things weren’t going as I wanted.
Sometimes, I even cried because the toast was too crispy or there wasn’t enough garlic in my food. I’d get upset over trivial things, waking up at odd hours and craving junk food like burritos or hamburgers.
Yet, despite all of this crazy behavior, Yulian never raised his voice at me, never yelled or told me just how unbearable I was. He would just listen to my rants and get me whatever it was that I wanted. No judgment. No questions asked.
In his own way, he was somewhat sweet and very understanding. Yulian rolled with every punch my hormones threw—he didn’t bat an eye at my emotional outburst. No. He just took all my craziness in stride, held steady even when I was one mood swing away from burning the house down.
If patience were a person, it’d be my husband. And I was proud of the man he was becoming—gentle, sweet, and kind. He was like that only for me, of course. To the outside world, he was still the same ruthless Mafia boss they knew him to be.
Watching him right now, frowning at a set of cartoonish instructions, melted my heart like.
Kneeling beside the box, he lay down wooden pieces like weapons for battle, a finger scratching the back of his head. “Screw A goes into Panel C, using Bolt F—and the fuck’s a hex nut?” He spread out his arms, a glint of frustration creeping into his tone.
I couldn’t help the laughs bursting from my lips: raw, full, and rich.
He raised his head, meeting my gaze, a playful scowl settling on his face. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, but it is,” I replied amidst chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “Because just about five minutes ago, you were bragging about how you’ve assembled guns and put together weapons-grade surveillance drones in under sixty seconds.”
He paused, cocking his head sideways. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little.” I shrugged, retaining the smile on my face. “Look at you: You’re sweating already, and you haven’t even picked up a screwdriver.”
“I’m assessing the situation,” he said, his tone defensive.
“That’s one way to put it,” I muttered, teasing him. “Need a hand?”
“No offense, but you can barely even stand,” he said.
“Maybe,” I replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t supervise.”
He drew a deep breath. “Fine.”
I wiggled my brows, my smile broadening. I supervised—pointing when he reached for the wrong bolt, handing him screws from the table beside me. I didn’t stop there; I dropped sarcastic commentary every now and then, laughing when he made a mistake.
He would just grunt and roll his eyes through most of it.
My eyes caught one piece that didn’t align correctly—another to torment him. “There.” I pointed. “You should probably fix that.”
His scowl deepened. But I didn’t care. In fact, I loved it—I loved getting under his skin.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Maybe you should be nicer to the crib. I think it senses your hostility.”
He scratched his head, staring at the box. “That piece is backward,” he growled, a hint of frustration in his tone. “Fuck it, I think the crib’s just as confused as I am.”
“So, lemme see if I get this straight,” I began, my voice light but sarcastic. “You can dismantle and assemble weapons, but can’t fix a ‘baby cage’?”
“Just shut up,” he mumbled under his breath.
I laughed again, basking in his frustration. It felt good, like old times.
At long last, the final slot clicked into place, and he sat back on his heels, setting down the screwdriver beside him. “There. Done.” He gestured at the hand-crafted crib, wiping sawdust off his hands with exaggerated pride. “What do you think?” He stole a glance at me.
