Page 9 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
“What’s your name?” I asked, breaking eye contact, my fingers getting back to work.
“Yulian.”
“Last name?”
He didn’t answer. Even when I looked up at him, he remained silent, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.
“Great,” I mumbled under my breath.
My eyes narrowed on a complex path along his skin, my machine tracing with expert precision.
“So tell me, Ester,” he began. “Why tattooing? Doesn’t exactly scream safe career.”
Neither does the Bratva, but here we are,I thought, keeping my eyes on the lines I was tracing. “Let’s just say I like…leaving marks that mean something.”
He scoffed. “That’s vague, don’t you think?”
“You mean as vague as just Yulian?” I asked, my voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm.
A soft chuckle fell from his lips. “Fair enough,” he murmured. “Do you always dodge questions?”
“Do you always ask so many?” I shot back, my eyes fixed on his skin.
He shrugged his shoulders, calm. “Only when I’m interested.”
Charming.
It took everything in me to suppress the smile breaking through my lips. I couldn’t let him notice it—the slight crack in the wall.
When I leaned in to fill the fiber lines, his eyes dropped to my lips, bold and intentional. I caught the smirk on his face, but I pretended to be oblivious to the growing tension between us.
His gaze was seductive, a glint of passion dancing in his eyes, and he didn’t bother hiding it.
Minutes passed, and then finally, I gently wiped the tattoo, revealing the permanent mark I left on his ribcage. “And…done.” I straightened, stripping off the gloves.
He didn’t move at first, just stared down at the art, admiring it. Yulian rose from the chair, helped himself with a hand mirror from the nearby table, and observed my work. His eyes squinted ever so slightly. “I gotta admit, I’m impressed. The details are remarkable.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound modest.
He paused for a second, his gaze lingering on me. “Let me take you out,” he declared, his voice dripping with confidence.
I arched my brows, shock flickering in my gaze. “You know, most men would rephrase that and make it sound more like a question.”
“Most men lack the conviction that I have,” he replied, standing tall, broad, and still far too composed.
My lips twisted into a sly grin. His level of confidence was off the charts. Or was it arrogance? I couldn’t tell. But I did like it. “I think you mistake pride for conviction, Yulian,” I said, my expression softening against my will.
“And you, Ester, mistake self-worth for pride,” he answered, taking a step closer.
“I take it you’re not the kind to lose an argument,” I said, admiration creeping into my tone.
“I didn’t realize we were arguing,” he said, pausing, his eyes boring into mine. “I was just proposing to take you out.”
I crossed my arms across my chest, intrigued by his classy resilience. “You don’t even know me.”
“Not yet,” he said, his lips curling into a small smirk. “But I want to.”
The way he said those words—calm and collected—somehow melted my heart. This wasn’t the voice of an arrogant man. No. It was that of someone who knew exactly what he wanted and was going for it.
