Page 18 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
I pad to the window, pulling back the edge of the curtain just enough to see out. The manor grounds stretch beyond the glass: perfect lawns, clipped hedges, tall iron fences. No city noises, only the distant calls of birds, the hush of morning. I look for movement, for a guard or a shadow. I don’t see anyone, but I know I’m being watched.
I’m trapped. Even if I ran, I wouldn’t make it past the gates.
Tears prick my eyes. I swallow them down, forcing myself to be calm. I need to think. I need to survive. That’s all thatmatters. Not the luxury, not the shame blooming under my skin, not the memory of the man who did this to me.
I breathe deep, steady. I repeat the only thing I know for sure:I am not safe. I am not home. I am not his.
Part of me—the part that remembers his hands, the heat, the way my body reacted—wonders if I’ll ever be the same again.
***
Hours crawl by in a haze of silence and worry. I keep expecting to wake up and find this has all been a nightmare, that I’ll open my eyes and see the dull, familiar ceiling of my own tiny apartment. Instead, I pace the gilded edges of someone else’s life, trapped in a mansion that smells of expensive wood and roses.
After breakfast, a quiet woman with a maid’s badge tells me, “You may walk where you like during the day, Miss. Master says you’re not to leave the house or the grounds. If you need something, ring the bell.”
Her tone is practiced kindness, but her eyes give away nothing. She’s seen fear like mine before.
It’s supposed to be a kindness, I think. Some scrap of freedom to prove I’m not a complete prisoner. But all it does is make me feel more watched, more exposed. Every hallway echoes with my footsteps. Every chandelier feels like a glass eye tracking my movements. Even the light here is too rich, too golden, too false.
I wander the upper floor, fingers trailing over the carved banister, looking for any sign of an unlocked window, a phone, a way out. The mansion is a maze. Room after room filled withart and velvet, heavy doors left open just enough to remind me there’s always a way in, but never a way out.
It’s on my third circuit, restless and anxious, that I hear a sound that makes me freeze. Moaning. High and feminine, cut with something desperate and real. I stop dead, heart thumping in my chest. At first, I think it’s my imagination. I strain to listen, barely breathing.
Then it comes again, a rhythmic sound, unmistakable, joined by a soft, guttural male groan that could only be Markian.
A chill runs down my arms. I should turn away. I should go back to my room, close the door, and pretend I never heard a thing. Instead, against every ounce of good judgment I have left, I creep down the hallway, drawn by something I can’t name.
The door is half open, sunlight spilling over polished floors. I inch closer, careful not to make a sound. Through the gap, I see Markian’s broad shoulders, his body moving with controlled violence as he thrusts into a woman bent over the bed. She’s older, sultry, hair falling in waves down her back, hands braced against the mattress. Her face is flushed, mouth open in a moan that makes my skin go hot.
Markian’s movements are brutal and smooth, every thrust a lesson in dominance. His grip is hard on her hips, his jaw set in concentration, power radiating from every muscle. There’s no tenderness, only raw force, the kind that leaves no room for doubt about who’s in control. The woman arches, gasping, pleading in a low, needy voice. He doesn’t say a word. He just takes, unrelenting, like he was made for this.
I can’t stop watching. I want to turn away, but I’m trapped by the sight of his body, all lean muscle and dark intent, the way he commands her with a single touch. Shameflickers in my belly, but curiosity scratches harder, drowning out everything else.
The sound of skin against skin, the rhythmic gasps and guttural moans, fill the hallway. It’s too much. My cheeks blaze with heat, mortified by my own reaction. I turn, heart pounding, and hurry back the way I came, steps light as a ghost. I don’t look back. I don’t need to, because the image is seared into my mind.
I shut my bedroom door and press my back to the wood, breath coming in shallow, frantic bursts. My face is on fire, my thoughts a tangled knot of shame, confusion, and something else. Something darker, more electric than fear.
Why can’t I stop thinking about him? Why does the memory of his touch keep mixing with the brutal way he took that woman, the force in his hands, the certainty in his movements? I hate myself for wondering what it would feel like to be pinned, to be commanded, to be wanted with that kind of violence.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The scene plays over and over behind my eyelids, relentless and vivid. The sounds. The power. His body, moving with that same rough control he used on me. Except she wasn’t fighting, wasn’t pleading to be let go. She wanted it.
The line between fear and something else blurs, shifting in ways I can’t explain. I hug my knees to my chest, trying to will the images away, but curiosity won’t let go. I want to hate him. I want to be disgusted. All I can do is press my forehead to my knees, trembling, and listen to the ghost of those sounds echoing through the golden halls.
When I finally crawl beneath the velvet covers, sleep feels a thousand miles away. I am trapped. Watched. Owned. Butfor the first time, I’m not just afraid—I’m hungry for answers, starving to understand what makes a man like Markian Sharov burn so hot and cold at once, and why it feels like he’s set something inside me alight.
Sleep never really comes. I lie awake, tangled in sheets that smell nothing like home, my body tense and restless. Every time I shift, I remember the woman’s moans, the rough cadence of Markian’s breath, the sharp slap of skin. It echoes in my head, fusing with memories of his hands on me: forceful, unforgiving, but impossibly controlled.
I should feel nothing but fear, and yet there’s something else burrowing under my skin. I’m embarrassed by it. Angry at myself. I keep telling myself it’s just adrenaline, just the trauma of being ripped from my life and thrown into this twisted world.
I can’t ignore how my body reacted—how it still reacts, heat pooling low in my stomach whenever I remember the way he looked, the way he sounded, the way he took without asking.
In the dark, I press a pillow over my head, trying to suffocate the thoughts. I imagine running—breaking a window, sneaking past guards, sprinting into the woods beyond the gates.
The truth is, I don’t know where I’d run, or if I even could.
As morning creeps through the heavy curtains, I stare at the ceiling, numb with longing and confusion. I’m a prisoner in a palace. Every inch of this place is meant to break me or reshape me, and I don’t know which scares me more: that Markian will come for me again, or that, when he does, I might want him to.
Chapter Ten - Markian
