บททั้งหมดของ A Taste of the Bratva King: บทที่ 71 - บทที่ 80

TamaraThe silence in this house is suffocating.I shift on the velvet chaise lounge in the sitting room, pressing my palm against my lower abdomen where a dull ache has been gnawing at me all day. The pain I've associated with endometriosis is back with a vengeance, like my body is punishing me for daring to hope. Every muscle feels tender, every breath shallow. Even the act of sitting upright sends waves of discomfort through my pelvis."Rest as much as you can." Dr. Varga's words echo in my mind, accompanied by the memory of his concerned frown and the way his fingers had drummed against his clipboard while he delivered the news. "If we can get you to week 12, you should be fine."Twelve weeks feels like a lifetime away. I'm barely at five.I glance at the antique clock on the mantle— 7 p.m. The evening light has dimmed to amber, and now the house feels cavernous around me. Sergei won't be back until late. Something about complications at the construction site. I can still remember

Sergei"I'm bleeding!"The words rip through the hum of construction schedules and contractor bullshit spread across my desk as the door flies open with a crash. Every muscle in my body locks rigid as I snap my head up to find Tamara standing in my office doorway.Bozhe moy!Her face is chalk-white, that beautiful porcelain skin now the color of fresh snow. Dark circles bruise the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and she's swaying slightly— like someone fighting to stay conscious.Blood.She said bleeding.The baby!"Yob tvoyu mat'!" The curse tears from my throat as I launch myself from behind the desk, papers scattering. My hands find her shoulders, steadying her trembling frame before she can collapse. "How much blood? How long?""I—" Her voice wavers, thin and frightened. "It started an hour ago. It's getting worse."Jesus. This isn't supposed to happen. Not again. Not to another woman carrying my child."We're going to the hospital. Now."My voice sounds foreign— raw and desperate

SergeiI exist in a fog these days.Not living— existing. Going through the motions like a fucking ghost haunting my own goddamn life.The only thing keeping me tethered is knowing Tamara is safe. Dr. Varga discharged her three days ago, said she'll recover fully, but she's still weak. Still broken. I hired a small army of staff to make sure she has everything she needs, but we barely speak.What's there to say?She manages one conversation— tells me she can't be a surrogate mother anymore. That it was a dead idea from the start. Her voice is hollow when she says it, and I watch her fold into herself like she's protecting whatever's left of her spirit.I want to tell her it doesn't matter. That I don't give a shit about the contract anymore. That all I care about is her staying here, with me, in this house that finally feels like home when she's in it. But every time I look at her, I see the blood. I remember holding her broken body in my arms. I remember thinking I was going to lose

TamaraThe cramping hasn't stopped.It's been days since the miscarriage, and my body still feels like it's turning itself inside out. Every breath comes with a sharp reminder of what I've lost— not just the pregnancy, but the hope I didn't want to believe I was carrying. The possibility of something beautiful with Sergei, something that could have transcended whatever darkness brought us together.Sergei disappeared yesterday morning without a word. No note, no explanation, just the silence where his presence used to be. Since I got back from the hospital, I've returned to the guest suite. No sense in sharing a bed with him now that we're no longer trying for a baby. And that hurts just as much as everything else.And now there's Melor— the brother who arrived out of nowhere when Sergei vanished. He claims he doesn't know where his brother went, but the way his eyes slide away from mine tells a different story. Everyone knows something I don't. Everyone is protecting me from truths I

SergeiMr. Simpson leads me through corridors that stretch endlessly.Every door we pass could be hiding my son, and the uncertainty is eating me alive from the inside out.When he finally stops, it's in front of a door that looks no different from any other. Plain wood, brass handle, unremarkable."You can see Slava," he says, his voice careful and measured, "but you can't meet him. This is all I can do for you."No, goddammit!But I force myself to nod because speaking might crack whatever's left holding me together.He opens the door, revealing a room divided by glass. Observation glass. The kind they use in police stations when they need you to identify a body.I step through and my world stops.There he is.Slava, my only son, sits on the floor of what looks like a play area— soft mats, colorful toys scattered around him like promises of a normal childhood. He's the most perfect thing I've ever seen. Fair hair catches the afternoon light streaming through windows, and every featu