All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

TamaraFor a moment, neither of us move. My breathing is ragged, labored, as aftershocks continue to ripple through my oversensitized body. Behind me, I can hear Sergei's harsh breathing, feel the tension radiating from him in waves."Krasivyy," he murmurs, his palm smoothing over my heated skin with infinite gentleness. "So beautiful when you surrender to me."The words make me shiver with renewed want. I should be mortified that I came from a spanking, should be demanding explanations or running for the door. Instead, all I can think about is how empty I feel, how desperately I need him inside me."Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for.His hands grip my hips again, and I feel the bed dip as he leans over me. His mouth brushes my ear, his breath hot against my skin."Please what, Tamara? Tell me what you need."The command in his voice makes my core pulse with desperate hunger. I know what I need, what I've been craving since the moment he kissed me. But saying it o

SergeiFor the next hour, I try to focus on construction details— timeline adjustments, material costs, the hundred decisions required to transform vision into reality. But my attention keeps drifting to Dénes, who chatters constantly while helping his father in ways that are more trouble than help.The connection between them is obvious, unbreakable. Péter's patience when explaining why certain tools are dangerous. Dénes's pride when he successfully carries a small piece of equipment to the right location. The easy affection that flows between them like it's the most natural thing in the world."You have kids, boss?" Péter asks during a break, wiping sweat from his forehead while Dénes examines a level with scientific intensity.The question hits harder than I anticipated. My chest tightens until breathing feels optional, memories rushing back with the force of a freight train. Masha's hand over our child in her belly. The nursery I'd started planning. Tiny feet kicking against my pa

TamaraI can't sleep.I've been lying here for hours, staring at the ceiling of this impossibly luxurious guest suite while my mind churns through Sergei's proposition like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle.One million Euros.A baby.The chance to have everything I thought endometriosis had stolen from me.What kind of universe does he live in?In the normal world— the world I used to inhabit before financial desperation led me to Sergei's home— people don't make offers like this. They don't sit behind mahogany desks with the calm authority of kings and propose business arrangements that involve growing their children inside your body.But Sergei Sidorov doesn't live in the normal world. That much became crystal clear the moment I stumbled into his secret room. The weapons, the cash, the toys that spoke of appetites I'm only beginning to understand— all of it painted a picture of a man who operates by rules I've never encountered.Should I be scared?Every rational brain cell

TamaraThe morning sun filters through the garden's carefully manicured trees as I sit on a stone bench, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between my palms.The warmth seeps through the ceramic, but it does nothing to calm the storm of thoughts churning in my mind. I keep replaying last night— Sergei's tortured cries, the way his body convulsed with torment in sleep.Masha... save her... our child!The anguish in his voice was so raw it made my heart hurt.What could have happened to cause such vivid nightmares? I'm certain he doesn't remember— he was too deep in sleep, lost in whatever hell his subconscious dragged him through. But the woman's name haunts me.Masha.I'm almost positive it's the pregnant woman from the photograph beside his bed. The serene beauty with her hand protectively over her belly.Where is she now? And more importantly— where is their child?The jealousy that spikes through me is irrational and unwelcome. I have no claim on Sergei, no right to feel territorial a

TamaraThe clock reads 9:17 p.m., and the house has settled into the kind of quiet that feels almost sacred.I'm curled up in my bed wearing my softest pajamas— gray cotton shorts and a matching tank top that suddenly feels inadequate against the evening chill. The book in my hands is supposed to be a distraction, some romance novel I picked up months ago, but the words blur together on the page.My mind won't stop churning.That woman in the garden. Her eyes filled with rage, the way she spat the word "slut" like it physically burned her tongue. The possessive fury radiating from every inch of her designer-clad frame as she claimed ownership over Sergei.Sergei is mine.Another wave of jealousy surges. Which is ridiculous. I have no claim on him. This is business, nothing more. A surrogacy contract that will solve my financial problems and give him the child he wants.But then why does the thought of that platinum blonde beauty having prior claim to his affections make me want to thr