Page 38 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
My hands curl around the pregnancy test, knuckles white. All the old vows come roaring back—protection, ownership, legacy. She thought she could take it all away, as if I would just let her walk. She was wrong.
I stand, every nerve alive, every muscle humming with purpose. My mind begins to work—methodical, relentless. It might take weeks. It might take months. Hell, it might take years. But I will find her. I will find my child.
Lui enters quietly, reading the look on my face. He sees the test in my hand, the rage simmering in my eyes, and he knows. He says nothing, only waits for orders.
“Put the word out,” I say, voice cold and final. “She’s to be found. No harm—just bring her back. If anyone helps her, they answer to me. You understand?”
He nods, eyes wary. “What about the kid?”
I stare at him until he looks away. “The kid is mine. Everything else is noise.”
As Lui slips out, I sit back in my chair, mind spinning. The city is vast, and she is clever, but she cannot outrun me. She cannot keep my child from me. I will turn over every stone, shake every tree, burn every bridge if I have to. I will find her, no matter how far she runs, no matter who she becomes.
There is no more mercy in me. No more hope for forgiveness, or soft words, or second chances. She made her choice. Now she’ll learn what happens to those who run from Markian Sharov. My child—my blood—will not grow up thinking I am a ghost or a monster someone can escape. My legacy will not be stolen.
***
As the morning sun cuts through the windows, I pocket the pregnancy test and stand. The hunt begins now. And I will not rest until I have them back under my control, where they belong.
The world may think I’ve lost, but Markian Sharov does not lose what’s his. He never has. He never will.
I feel the pregnancy test’s weight in my pocket like a brand against my skin. My thoughts sharpen, anger and determination fusing into something implacable. All softness is gone; there’s only resolve now. I call Lui back, my tone absolute.
“Start with the train stations, the airports, every bus terminal in the city. Pay off whoever you have to. I want her found.”
He nods, vanishing to spread the word. I stare out the window, jaw tight, mind already mapping every possible routeshe could have taken. She thinks she can outsmart me, disappear with my child. She’s wrong.
I promise myself again: no one escapes me. No one takes my blood and hides it away. I will find her, whether it takes days or a lifetime. My world has narrowed to a single goal; bring her back, at any cost.
Chapter Nineteen - Jessa
The motel stinks of mildew and cigarettes, and even with the window cracked, the air never clears.
Every sound outside—sirens, car doors, raised voices—filters through the thin walls and keeps me on edge. I stay dressed, backpack zipped and never out of reach, burner phone tucked under the pillow where my hand finds it in the dark.
Sleep comes only in snatches. I wake to nightmares I can’t remember, my heart pounding, the tang of fear sharp at the back of my throat.
Each morning is a battle with nausea. It rolls through me in waves, worse than before, leaving me weak and trembling. I press my forehead to the cool, chipped tiles of the bathroom, knees pulled up, breath shallow.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what I deserve. A kind of penance for running, for loving a man like Markian, for daring to want something more.
I eat what I can. Crackers, cheap yogurt, anything I can keep down. My clothes are already a little tighter, my body changing in subtle, unnerving ways. I tell myself I’m doing this for the baby, for a chance at freedom, but on nights like this, hunched over a stained toilet in a motel miles from anywhere, it feels like I’m just running in circles.
Every part of me aches for home, but I know I can never go back. Not now.
One night, the nausea grows sharp and unbearable. I barely make it to the bathroom, retching until my whole body shakes. My vision blurs, black at the edges. I clutch the sink, willing myself not to pass out, and wonder what happens if Ican’t keep going. There’s no one to call, no one to trust. I’m utterly, desperately alone.
When morning comes, I can’t take it anymore. I wash my face, pull on a clean shirt, and cram my things into the backpack.
The motel clerk doesn’t look up when I hand over the key, doesn’t care about the ghost I’m becoming. I walk two blocks to the bus stop, hood pulled low, and ride until the city gives way to strip malls and endless gray roads.
The clinic is just off the highway, sandwiched between a pawn shop and a payday lender. It’s cheap, with chipped walls and machines older than I am, and a receptionist who barely glances up when I check in.
I use the fake name I picked out two days ago, hands shaking as I fill in the paperwork.
I wait forever. The television in the corner plays daytime soaps, the other women in the waiting room all slumped in identical plastic chairs. My mind spirals: What if something’s wrong? What if I’ve already failed this child? I press a hand to my belly, so slight beneath my shirt, and whisper a promise.Just hold on. Just a little longer.
The nurse who calls me back is older, her face lined but kind. She leads me to a tiny cubicle behind a faded blue curtain. “You feeling all right, honey?” she asks, voice soft.
