Page 33 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
Jessa’s already sunk her claws in. She’s in my blood, in my bed, in every fucked-up hope I have left. The danger isn’t that she’ll betray me. The danger is that I’m already hers, whether I want to admit it or not.
I tell myself I can be ruthless. I tell myself I could end her, clean and fast, if it came to that. The truth is, I’m soft where she’s concerned. Softer than I’ve ever been. And in my world, softness is a death sentence.
I stare into the empty glass, cold and heavy in my hand, and wonder how long I can keep lying to myself.
The house settles into that after-battle hush, a silence that feels dense and raw, as if the walls themselves have taken a beating. I’m alone in my office with nothing but the remnants of the night and the steady throb in my ribs for company.
The bottle of vodka is only half gone, but the glass feels too light in my hand. I pour another, letting the icy liquid pool until it almost spills over, then down it in one long swallow. The burn is clean, but it does nothing to dull the ache inside me.
There are too many ghosts in this room. Too much blood clinging to my skin.
For a while, I just sit there. My mind moves in circles—Chris, the disaster at the club, the faces of men who followed me into hell and didn’t walk back out. Oleg’s laughter, Anton’s steady voice, the young recruit with the scar over his eyebrow whose name I never bothered to learn.
They trusted me to bring them home. Now their blood is on my hands, just like all the others. Just like always.
I rub my face with both hands, feeling old, feeling too human. I should be making calls, should be barking orders, plotting revenge.
Instead, I think of Jessa. Of her wide, frightened eyes, the sweet taste of her skin, the way her voice trembled with both fear and need. Even now, the memory of her is enough to make me want, enough to make me furious. What the fuck have I let happen to me?
The grandfather clock in the corner ticks out the minutes. Rain taps on the glass, the storm outside stubborn and endless. Somewhere, the city is cleaning up after the firefight. Sirens, shouts, the murmur of police radios in the gutter light. Here, it’s just me and the silence.
At some point, I hear footsteps return, the slow shuffle of someone who’s exhausted but still standing.
Lui reappears in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the hallway light. He carries his own glass, now filled with whiskey instead of vodka. He doesn’t wait for an invitation, just drops into the chair across from me, sinking in with a weary sigh.
He sets the glass on the table with a soft clink. “I’ll start sending out the condolences,” he says, voice flat, almost businesslike. “Oleg’s mother, Anton’s wife, the rest. Someone’s got to let them know.”
His words dig under my skin, sharp and cold. I look at him, brow furrowed. “That should be my job,” I mutter, meaning it. Itismy job. I’m the one who led them in, the one who called the shots.
Lui shakes his head, gaze steady. “No, Boss. Not tonight. You think they really want to hear from the man who got their family killed?” There’s no venom, just a blunt truth that lands like a punch. “Let me take care of it.”
I tense, anger flaring sharp and sudden. “Watch yourself, Lui. You’re one of mine, but you’re not irreplaceable.” The words come out hard, but there’s no real threat behind them. Not tonight. Not with everything we’ve lost.
He just lifts his glass, a tired smile on his lips. “Yeah, well, you’re not invincible either, Markian. Even kings bleed.”
For a moment, I want to snap. To remind him just how many bodies I’ve left in my wake to keep this empire standing, to keep men like him safe.
The fight goes out of me. I drain my glass and pour another, the bottle sweating in my hand.
Lui watches me, quiet. “You gonna tell the others about the girl?” he asks after a while, voice careful. “Alexei already knows. The rest will find out. People talk.”
I grit my teeth, jaw clenching. “Not yet. Let them think it was bad timing, or a leak, or whatever else you can come up with. Anything but the truth.”
He nods, understanding. “You trust her?” The question hangs in the air.
I don’t answer right away. I let the silence stretch. Do I trust her? My mind flashes to Jessa’s face, the way she looked at me after the first night, the panic, the hope, the need. The way she melted under my hands, even as her body trembled with fear. She’s sunk her claws deep, deeper than I want to admit.
“No,” I say finally, the word bitter on my tongue. “I know it was her, but she was only trying to keep a man alive.”
He studies me for a long moment, then stands, draining his glass. “That’s your problem, Markian. You want too much from people who don’t know how to give it.”
He walks to the door, hesitating just before he leaves. “I’ll handle the families,” he says, softer now. “You get some rest. Tomorrow, we start over.”
When the door closes, the room feels emptier than before. I sit there in the dim light, swirling vodka, letting the ghosts crowd in around me. I see Oleg’s mother’s face, Anton’s wife clutching the phone, the endless parade of grief that comes with every decision I make.
I think about what Alexei said earlier about getting soft, about the danger of letting someone in. He’s right. I am getting soft. In our world, that kind of weakness is fatal.
I want to hate her for what she did. I want to blame her for the dead, for the chaos, for the ache in my chest that never quite goes away. But the truth is, I can’t. I made my choices, and I let her in. Now I have to live with it.
