Bratva Boss’s Secret Baby: Chapter 13

Sabrina

The Belov estate is colder than I imagined. It’s vast, silent, and guarded like a war bunker draped in marble. Everything here is beautiful and expensive and completely lifeless, from the crystal chandeliers that catch light from windows I can’t see through to the exquisite Persian rugs that are so costly, I’m afraid to walk on them.

My guest suite is bigger than my entire apartment, filled with luxuries I didn’t ask for and don’t know how to use. There’s a sitting area with a fireplace, a bathroom with a tub that could fit three people, and a walk-in closet that’s currently holding the two suitcases I packed in a hurry. The bed is large enough to sleep a family and covered in silk sheets that feel foreign against my skin.

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at grounds that stretch beyond what I can see, and try to convince myself that this is temporary. Once Nikandr finds whoever was watching me, I’ll be able to go home and pretend none of this happened.

Even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. There’s no going back from this. Not from the pregnancy, not from knowing what I know about his world, and certainly not from the way he looks at me, like I’m both a threat and something precious that needs to be protected.

I don’t feel safe here. I feel contained.

The distinction matters more than I thought it would. At the safehouse, I was a prisoner, but at least I understood the rules. Here, I’m supposedly a guest, but I feel trapped, just in a prettier cage.

A soft knock at the door interrupts my brooding. I open it to find a woman in her fifties with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun and kind eyes that remind me of my mother. “Miss Clyde? I’m Eugenie, the house manager. Mr. Belov asked me to check if you need anything.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

She studies my face with the practiced eye of someone who’s good at reading people. “Have you eaten? It’s past dinner time, and you look pale.”

My stomach churns. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Morning sickness?” she asks gently, so she knows about the pregnancy. Of course, she does. Nikandr probably briefed his entire staff.

“Something like that.”

She tuts with sympathy. “It usually gets better after the first trimester.”

“I’m in the second,” I say almost woodenly.

Her frown deepens. “Stress then. I have ginger tea that might help settle your stomach.”

Her kindness is unexpected and somehow makes everything worse. I don’t want to like anything about this place or the people in it. I don’t want to get comfortable. “That’s very thoughtful, but I’m really okay for now.”

She nods but doesn’t look convinced. “If you change your mind, just press the call button by the bed. Someone will always be available.”

After she leaves, I lock the door and lean against it, wondering how many people in this house are watching my every move. How many cameras are hidden behind expensive artwork and elegant mirrors? How many ways are there for Nikandr to monitor me without me knowing?

I pull out my phone and call Jessie, desperate to hear a familiar voice.

“Brina? Thank God. I’ve been worried sick since that guy Maksim showed up at the club with two men the size of refrigerators.”

“Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine. They moved me to some swanky apartment in the financial district. Honestly, it’s nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived.” Her voice takes on a more serious tone. “But what the hell is going on? This Maksim guy won’t tell me anything except I’m not safe at home, and you’ve been ‘relocated’ somewhere safer.”

I sink onto the bed and try to figure out how to explain something I don’t fully understand myself. “Someone was watching me. Watching us. They had cameras in the apartment.”

“Cameras?” Her voice goes up an octave. “What kind of cameras?”

“The kind that record everything. Nikandr found them when we went to pack my things.”

She curses. “How long do you think they were there?”

“Weeks, maybe months.” The thought makes my skin crawl all over again. “One of the regulars from the club—that shifty creep, Carl—attacked me today. Nikandr thinks he was paid to watch me and try to take me for some reason.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long I think the call might have dropped. “Jessie?”

“I’m here. I’m just processing the fact that someone was watching us shower and sleep and live our lives without us knowing.” Her voice is shaky now. “Where are you?”

“Nikandr’s estate. It’s…” I look around the opulent room and try to find words that capture how surreal this all feels. “It’s like a museum. Beautiful and cold and completely isolated.”

She sounds worried. “Are you safe?”

I don’t hesitate, not wanting her to worry. “I think so, but this place feels like a really expensive prison.”

She’s silent for another moment as though gathering her thoughts. “Brina, someone broke into our home and planted cameras. Someone paid a man to watch you and probably hurt you. You and the baby are only alive because Nikandr showed up when he did.”

I know she’s right. Logically, I understand everything she’s saying is true, but logic doesn’t make the grief any smaller.

“I know. I just…” I take a shaky breath. “I’ve lost everything. My job, my apartment, and my independence. I didn’t choose any of this.”

“You didn’t choose to get pregnant either, but you’re dealing with it.”

I shake my head even though can’t see it. “That’s different.”

She lets out a small sigh. “Is it? Both situations require you to adapt to circumstances you didn’t plan for.”

I want to argue with her, to point out that choosing to keep my baby is completely different from being forced to live under Nikandr’s protection, but the truth is, both situations involve giving up control over my life, and that terrifies me more than I want to admit. Part of me accepted there was a possibility Nikandr would be involved in my life in some way when I chose to keep the pregnancy.

“What if this is permanent?” I whisper the fear aloud. “What if I never get to go home?”

She sounds encouraging but also firm. “You’ll build a new home. You can do this.”

After we hang up, I lie on the impossibly soft bed and stare at the ceiling, feeling more alone than I have since my mother died. The silence in this house is oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of footsteps in hallways I haven’t explored and voices speaking in languages I don’t understand.

I try to sleep, but my mind won’t quiet. Every time I close my eyes, I see Carl’s face, feel his hands on me, and remember the moment when I thought he might actually hurt my baby. The terror of that moment keeps replaying in an endless loop, mixed with the relief of seeing Nikandr appear like some kind of avenging angel.

I hate that I needed rescuing and I couldn’t protect myself or my child. I really hate that my safety now depends entirely on a man whose world operates by rules I’ll never understand.

Around midnight, driven by a hunger I can’t name, something deeper than the physical need for food, I give up on sleep and make my way downstairs. The house is different at night, full of shadows and echoes that make it feel even larger and more intimidating than it did during the day.

I find the kitchen more by accident than design, following the smell of lingering herbs and the soft glow of light. It’s massive, with professional-grade appliances and enough counter space to feed an army, but somehow, it feels more welcoming than the rest of the house, maybe because Nikandr is already there.

He’s sitting at a large island in the center of the room, laptop open in front of him, wearing jeans and a black sweater that make him look less like a dangerous criminal and more like a man who belongs in a kitchen at midnight. There’s a cup of coffee at his elbow and papers scattered across the granite surface.

He looks up when I enter, and something in his expression shifts from focused concentration to gentle concern. “Can’t sleep?”

I shake my head and hover in the doorway, suddenly unsure why I came down here. “I was hungry.”

“Pregnancy cravings?”

The casual way he says it, like discussing my pregnancy is the most natural thing in the world, startles me. “Something like that.”

He closes the laptop and stands up, moving with that fluid grace I remember from before. “What sounds good?”

I hesitate before saying, “I don’t know. Something simple.”

Without another word, he opens the massive refrigerator and starts pulling out ingredients. I see him remove bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes from the fridge and bread from the box on the counter. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s making. “You don’t have to cook for me.”

“I know.” He doesn’t look up from the bacon he’s placing in a pan. “I can though. You’re hungry, and I’m already awake.”

He moves around the kitchen with the kind of effortless precision that speaks to years of practice. He toasts the bread to a perfect golden brown, cooks the bacon until it’s crispy but not burned, and slices the tomatoes with knife skills that would impress a professional chef.

“How do you know how to cook like that?”

He glances at me while he assembles the sandwich, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression that I haven’t seen before. “My parents died when I was sixteen. It was just me and my brother after that.”

The simple explanation makes me blink. I knew his brother was dead. That much was obvious from our conversation at the safehouse, but I hadn’t thought about what their life might have been like before that. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” He sets the sandwich on a plate, cuts it in half, and slides it across the island toward me. “You learn to take care of yourself when you have to.”

I nod in agreement before taking a bite, and it’s perfect. The bacon is crispy, the lettuce is fresh, the tomatoes are juicy, and the mayonnaise is just the right amount. It tastes like comfort food, like something someone who cares about you would make when you’re sad and tired and overwhelmed. My mom made grilled cheese and tomato soup in those times, but this ranks right up there. “This is really good.”

He smiles, looking genuinely pleased. “My brother had specific requirements for his BLTs. I got a lot of practice.”

There’s affection in his voice when he mentions his brother, mixed with a grief that time hasn’t completely healed. It makes him seem more human and less like the dangerous stranger who turned my life upside down.

“What was he like?”

Nikandr leans against the counter and goes still for a moment, considering. “Yaroslav was older than me and the kind of person people listened to. He was also smarter than me and better at keeping things balanced.”

“You loved him.”

“More than anything.” The simple admission seems to surprise him as much as it surprises me. “He was the only family I had left.”

I think about Jessie, how lost I would be without her friendship and support, and I begin to understand why finding his brother’s killer has consumed ten years of Nikandr’s life. “The Irina you’re searching for had something to do with…losing him?”

His expression gets grimmer. “She killed him and disappeared like she never existed.”

The pain in his voice is raw and immediate, like the wound is still fresh despite the passage of time. I want to say something comforting, but what comfort can I offer someone whose entire world was destroyed by an act of violence?

Instead, I take another bite of the sandwich and let the silence stretch between us. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but more like a shared acknowledgment of grief that can’t be fixed with words.

When I finish eating, he takes the plate and washes it in the sink. I watch his hands as he works, remembering how they felt on my skin that night thirteen weeks ago, and something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.

I shouldn’t be attracted to him after everything that’s happened when I’m carrying his child and trapped in his house with no clear path back to my old life, but sitting in this kitchen at midnight, having him take care of me in small, simple ways, I can’t deny part of me still wants him. “Thank you for the sandwich,” I say when he’s finished cleaning up.

He turns to face me, and there’s something in his expression that makes me tremble slightly. Not fully desire, but a kind of careful hope he’s trying to mask. “You don’t have to thank me, Sabrina. Taking care of you isn’t a burden.”

The way he softly says my name, like it means something important, makes my chest tighten with emotions I don’t want to examine too closely.

He moves past me toward the doorway, and for one foolish second, I wish he’d stayed. I wish he’d kissed me goodnight or touched my face the way he did that morning at the safehouse. Why can’t this be simple instead of complicated by pregnancy and danger and the vast differences between our worlds?

Of course, he doesn’t stay, though he pauses in the doorway and looks back at me one more time. “Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be easier.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the lingering scent of his cologne and the dangerous realization that despite everything that’s happened, and all the reasons I should hate him, I’m drawn to him all over again. This time, I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to walk away.

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