Page 43 of Sold to the Bratva
“You’re not alone,” I say gently. “We’ll figure this out together.”
She looks up at me, and something so open in her expression makes my chest ache. As long as I’ve known her, she’s been strong, defiant, sharp, and unwilling to bend for anyone. But in this moment, she lets herself be uncertain. She lets me in.
“I never imagined this,” she says, her voice cracking. “I spent so long trying not to feel anything about this marriage, trying to survive it like it was a prison sentence. But now…” She trails off.
“Now it’s real,” I finish for her. “This is actually your life.”
Her breath shudders out of her. “And it feels so big,” she whispers.
“It is big.”
I pause, letting my thumb trace across her knuckles.
She swallows hard. “What if I’m not ready?”
“Then we’ll get ready together.”
“I don’t even know how to be soft,” she admits. “You know me, I fight everything. What if I don’t have the mothering instinct?”
I smile gently. “You don’t have to be soft. You just have to be yourself. That will be more than enough.”
She exhales slowly and leans into me. Her forehead rests against my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her back, holding her close. We stay like that for a long time, not needing words.
I think of the kind of father I never had and the kind of home I never knew. The chaos, the silence, the constant pressure of legacy and loyalty. I don’t want that for her or for this child. Maybe I don’t know how to do it differently yet, but I want to learn.
I’ll learn for them. I have to.
17
KATYA
Two full days have crawled by, yet the doctor’s words keep spinning on an endless loop in my head. I’m pregnant. I. Am. Pregnant. A baby is already taking shape inside me, and in nine months I’ll be the one to bring it into the world. It’s the hardest, most gut-punching news I’ve ever received, even worse than the day my father announced I would marry Isaac.
I stare out the window of our bedroom with one knee drawn to my chest, a throw blanket slung loosely around my shoulders, and a pit in my stomach that hasn’t eased since I woke up.
Three weeks pregnant. That’s what the doctor said, which means that sometime shortly after our wedding, maybe even on the night itself, my body made a decision without consulting me. Now I’m sitting in the mansion of a man I barely knew a month ago, wearing his ring, carrying his child, and trying not to lose my grip on reality. It feels as if I boarded a train already hurtling too fast and never checked where it was headed.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers tremble as I scroll through my contacts and land on the one person I can call without falling apart.
Evie.
She picks up on the second ring, her voice at once warm and wary.
“Hey, mama,” she teases. “I was wondering when you were going to call me.”
I close my eyes and sink deeper into the window seat.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Her voice stays gentle. “You don’t have to. I can already guess. You’re spiraling.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Is it that obvious?”
“I think you’re forgetting how well I know you.”
A weak, humorless laugh slips out.
“I’m pregnant, Evie,” I say, because even though she already knows, I need to hear the words myself.
