Page 37 of Bratva Baby

She jerks against my grip, furious, breaths coming fast, hair half fallen loose around her face. My body answers before my head does. Anger. Heat. The sharp, filthy urge to turn her toward me and kiss her until she stops fighting long enough to remember exactly whose hands she’s in.

I almost do it. Then my eyes catch on the papers scattered across the floor between us, white sheets, bent corners, her handwriting, freight notes, and one page near the center that pulls me up short. A clinic prescription, her name on it.

I bend to pick it up, but she follows my gaze and drops fast, shoving into me as she tries to grab the paper off the floor. But I’m bigger, faster, and already there. My hand lands on the top page before hers does. She makes a raw, furious sound and grabs for it. I hold her back with one forearm and look down.

It’s an ultrasound report with dating notation, a single, viable fetus. My eyes skim the rest of the page. Bloodwork, vitamins, iron, folate, and instructions for rest. My head comes up slowly, and I look back at Sofiya.

“What’s this?” I ask, and my voice is so soft it’s almost a whisper.

She’s three feet away now, chest rising hard, face drained white, eyes lit with the kind of fear and anger I’ve seen in people right before they either lie better or break clean in half.

“It’s mine.” She lunges for it.

I shove her back and keep the paper in my hand. “How far along?” I ask it quietly.

Her mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

I take a step toward her. “How far?”

She shakes her head once, furious. “Give that back.”

I don’t look at the paper again. I’m looking at her. “Answer me.”

“This is none of your business.”

I close the distance. She backs up and hits the edge of the table with the backs of her thighs. That stops her. Now she has nowhere to go unless she plans to come through me.

“None of my business,” I repeat, my tone rough and wild. “A pregnancy report falls into my hand, the dates line up with Prague, and you think you still get to say that to me?”

Her chin comes up, brave and shaking at once. “You don’t get to storm in here and decide what belongs to you.”

I look at her for a long second. “You’re standing there white as a sheet with your cousin hunting you down, hiding clinic papers behind your back, and that’s the line you want to use?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, though her voice shakes and her lower lip trembles. I could kiss her or shake her, but I hold off.

“Then why are you running?” I take a step toward her. “Why are you hiding that paper?”

“Because you’ll claim me and my baby.” The words jump out of her.

Hearing her say it out loud makes something settle in me. I close my eyes, breathe in for three, out for two. Then, I open them and fix them on her.

I look formidable enough that her throat wobbles visibly. “That’s exactly what I get to do when blood may be involved.” I fold the paper once and slide it into my coat pocket.

Her eyes flash immediately. “Don’t talk about me like I’m territory you control.”

I bend until we’re at eye level and cup her chin in the palm of my hand. “You’re carrying a child that may be mine, and you’re running across Europe with Leonidov men on your back.” I pause to let that sink in. Then I add, “That makes you my concern, whether you like the phrasing or not.”

Her hand flies up, but I catch her wrist and pin it flat to the table. Tears spring into her eyes at once, and I hate that she looks so sweet and vulnerable and stupid at the same time. She’s driving me insane.

“Let me go, you bastard.”

I shake her slightly. “Answer me first.”

She pulls against my grip. I tighten it until she stops fighting the hold and starts glaring instead.

“How far along?”

Her eyes shine. “I hate you.”