Page 73 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
After that, he gave her a choice: to stay and work for the family, or to walk away and start her life anew, fully funded by him. Olga felt indebted to Tarasovs for what they’d done for her. No one forced her to stay.
She chose to do so of her own free will. Besides, Yulian’s mother was heavily pregnant with him at the time, and his older brother, Sergei, was just two years old. So, she made her choice.
When both brothers came of age and parted ways, leaving their father’s house to build their own lives around the family business, Olga chose to leave with Yulian. She followed him to Chicago and had ever since been like a mother to him.
It didn’t matter what anyone thought about the Tarasov Bratva—didn’t matter that the whole world saw them as monsters. To Olga, they were the best people anyone could have around them. She practically regarded them as angels.
Of course, she wasn’t ignorant about their family business and how extreme their methods could be at times. But Olga was certain that Tarasovs, especially Yulian, would never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. None of his victims were innocent; they were all monsters who’d done terrible and horrible things.
She was right. My husband was no saint. But he had rules—strict rules that kept him in line. He was into a lot of bad stuff—shady businesses that could land him in prison. But at least he wasn’t a hypocrite like the men in high places and government officials he had on his payroll.
Thanks to Olga, I learned some pretty interesting things about my husband—the good, the bad, and the ugly. She didn’t hold back on anything; she told me everything she knew.
What could I say? It was impossible not to love him even more.
He was an apex predator, a defender of his own, one who’d rather watch the world burn than let anything bad happen to his loved ones.
That was the man I married—the man I loved and adored with all my heart. He was my husband, the father of our child, and the protector of our home.
I was proud to be his wife, his partner in every way of the word.
By the end of my postpartum period—almost eight weeks—my body was mostly healed, both inside and out. Now, myhormones were all over the place, my hunger and desire for my husband returning double fold.
He’d been patient enough despite the longing I always saw in his eyes. According to Olga and the family doctor, it was safe to resume sexual activity with my husband.
About time.
The man was starving already; we both were.
***
It was late evening when I stood in the nursery, singing baby Maria to sleep—an old Italian lullaby my mother used to sing to me as a child. Worked all the time. And seeing how peaceful our little girl was in my arms, I’d say it hasn’t lost its charm.
Quietly, I lowered her into the crib assembled by her father. “Sleep well, my little angel,” I murmured, tapping her tiny nose.
I kissed her forehead and then straightened, a radiant smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
“She’s not gonna vanish, you know.” Yulian’s gentle voice came from behind me.
I turned around, and there he was, leaning against the door with arms across his chest. He was shirtless, the soft light highlighting his athletic frame, his icy blue eyes pinned on me.
“I know.” I cleared my throat, a flutter rising in my chest, my finger reflexively scratching the back of my head. “Just, uh…just making sure.”
My gaze swept over his masculine body, drinking in the details of his chiseled abs and the scars that mapped his thick skin. In the depths of his eyes was a glint of desire, the same glint that’d been flickering in his gaze for the past week or two.
Yulian watched me in silence, letting his eyes do the talking, the mild seduction. His lips looked succulent tonight,and beneath the fabric of his joggers was the faint print of his boner. He was turned on but wouldn’t say a word.
The scent of cologne, with traces of shampoo and soap, filled the air in the room, hinting that he’d just taken a shower.
He jerked his brows at my previous statement, a look of disbelief settling on his face. “You’re making sure that she’s not gonna vanish?”
“Well, it sounds ridiculous now that you put it like that,” I replied, smoothing out the faint wrinkles in my nightgown.
He drew closer, his footsteps slow and measured. I didn’t know why, but my heart wouldn’t stop racing, and my pulse was spiking. It was almost the same feeling I felt the very first night we were together—anxious and a bit scared.
“It’s not ridiculous,” he said, halting in front of me, his hand pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s a mother’s love.” His fresh breath brushed against my face, his touch igniting a flame within me. “I hear no other kind of love beats it.”
I placed my hands on his torso, fingers slowly tracing the outline of his broad chest. His cologne wrapped around me like soft silk—nice and sweet. “What did you hear?” I whispered under my breath, my eyes jerking to meet his.
