Page 8 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
He arched his brows. “Not bad.”
The concept was Russian symbolism, just twisted slightly—defiant, regal, like a warning disguised as art.
He met my eyes, and his expression softened ever so slightly, his gaze pinned on me. We stared at each other for an awkwardly long five seconds, the kind that made my heart skip a beat.
Who the hell was this man, and how was he manipulating my emotions without even trying so hard?
My eyes dropped to the floor, a faint grin lining the corners of my lips. I hated myself for being such a little princess around him, one whose silly heart wouldn’t stop racing. It was hard to describe how I felt at the moment. I couldn’t exactly name the feeling coursing through my veins.
His effect on me was both fascinating and alarming at the same fucking time. It was quite disturbing how the strange man stirred up something in me that I thought I’d buried a long time ago. The scariest part of it all was how I knew deep down that whatever this was, it was beyond physical attraction.
The man had this evil stench that pulled me in without my consent—this reek of ruthlessness, power, and influence that had me entranced. I was drawn to his darkness, the same darkness that should scare the shit out of me.
Who are you, mister?I thought to myself.
He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch when I transferred the stencil. His breath was steady, those icy blue eyes pinned on me like a hook to a fish. It was almost like he was reading me, studying me.
Somehow, I managed to maintain my blank expression despite the fire he’d started inside me.
Stealing one last glance at him, I picked up my machine and began drawing on his skin.
It was hard to focus with his intoxicating scent invading my senses. Honestly, I’d never met a person who smelled half as good as this man. Damn, his cologne must have cost a fortune.
There was also his bare torso—masculine and insanely sexy. Those chiseled abs, that chest, broad and sculpted, weren’t helping either. It was like staring at the world’s best snack and not being allowed to take a bite.
Goddamn it, Ester. Focus,I urged myself, my gloved hands steady on his thick, warm skin.
I could feel his eyes on me, and that only made it worse. Awkward. Like I didn’t already have enough of him to deal with, now I had to add his lingering gaze to the list.
The air was thick with tension, and the more my fingers moved on his skin, the more difficult it was to breathe. I needed a distraction, something to help mask my anxiety and this stupid emotion swirling within me.
My chest heaved subtly, and although I was doing a pretty good job at concealing my unease, I knew it was only a matter of time before I slipped. I couldn’t have that—I had to do something, anything to ease this suffocating tension.
I always enjoyed working in silence, but not at the expense of my own sanity. Not when the silence was threatening to destroy and rip my mind to shreds.
“So,” I began, attempting to start a conversation. “What’s the story behind the scar?” My eyes glanced up at his face.
He hesitated for a bit, and just before I could take back my words, he answered, “Betrayal. Someone I trusted stabbed me in the…well, in the front.”
I paused for like a semi-second, then continued painting his skin. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” he said, his voice low and even. “It was a long time ago.”
I swallowed subtly, the idea of betrayal cutting close to something buried deep in my own chest.
The more time passed, the more the tension between us grew stronger.
“What’s your name?” he asked, bold and audacious.
“Ester,” I replied without taking my eyes off his skin.
He let the silence stretch on a while longer. “Last name?”
At this moment, I paused just a little, my eyes flicking to his face. He looked at me, waiting for my reply.
“Sharpe,” I answered, my tone flat, a warning not to ask more.
“Ester Sharpe,” he repeated, as if savoring the taste of it as he held my gaze.
