Forced Knocked-up Bratva Prisoner (Tarasov Bratva #18)

Chapter 1 —Eva

I’d been sitting on this chair for the past two hours, pretending to listen to the lecture as though I wasn’t already bored out of my mind.

My palm rested under my chin as the projector clicked on and off, as if it, too, were as tired as the rest of us. Every now and then, my eyes flicked between Professor Wells and the phone sitting between the pages of my notebook.

The phone was half-hidden, the screen dimmed low with strings of unread messages from my friend, Emika, and some unknown numbers. I spun my pen between my fingers with practiced ease, waiting patiently for the class to be over.

I wasn’t sure why, but today, I didn’t feel like doing anything. I just wanted to lie in my bed all day, watching T—as Bruno Mars said in his song, “The Lazy Song.” That’s how I woke up this morning.

Honestly, the only reason I had to drag myself out of my dorm was because Professor Wells had strict penalties for missing his classes. The last thing I wanted was to have a problem with him.

An incoming text stole my eyes, and the content made my heart skip a beat.

“Tell your father he’s running out of time. There’s nowhere he can hide that I won’t find him.” That’s what the message said.

It was sent from an unknown number, and so far, it was the third one just this morning.

I rubbed my eyes, wondering why I wasn’t already used to these kinds of messages by now—courtesy of my father’s gambling problem. That’s just one of his many issues. I was only twenty years old, yet it felt like I was carrying the responsibilities of a forty-year-old.

A knot tightened in my stomach as I stared blankly at my phone’s screen, my fingers drumming on my table.

“Miss Harlow!”

That deep, unmistakable voice snapped me out of my thoughts in an instant. My eyes flicked back to the professor, standing in front of the class with his dark eyes fixed on me.

His gaze was intense, his expression flat. “Can you tell the class what the illusory truth effect is?” He folded his arms across his chest, his brown hair catching the light.

Of course he’d make an example out of me for not paying attention in his class. Classic Professor Wells!

Heads turned to face me, waiting for my response.

I straightened a bit and cleared my throat under the weight of his unwavering gaze. “It’s, uh….” My fingers tucked my hair behind my ear, and my voice stayed steady and controlled. “…when a person believes something is true just because they’ve heard it several times.”

His hands dropped from his chest, and one casually slipped into his pocket.

“Repetition makes things feel real even if they’re false,” I concluded.

“Correct,” he stated, maintaining the same blank expression. “Illusory truth is a useful concept, especially outside academia.” He resumed pacing the front of the lecture hall, moving his hand as he spoke. “Don’t underestimate how lies can become truth if people repeat them long enough.”

His voice boomed out cognitive bias as the rest of the class dragged on. He continued teaching, ignoring the fatigue and the tiredness etched on his students’ faces.

I leaned back in my chair, allowing my thoughts to create a window of escape from this torture. I looked right at the professor as though I was listening when, in actual fact, I wasn’t.

The minute the bell’s shrills rang out, students sprang to their feet, as if they’d been waiting for this moment a long time. Chairs scraped against the floor, and noisy chatter filled the air, drowning out Professor Wells’s voice.

He reminded us of our assignments and how they would account for 60% of our semester grades. No one seemed to pay attention. While my classmates had almost cleared out the hall, I sat back on my chair, skimming through the unread messages on my phone.

These were all text messages from my father’s creditors: about five of them. And they were all saying the same thing—to tell my father that he had limited time to pay his debts.

I locked my jaw, my eyes fixed on my phone’s screen as I tried to fight back the fear creeping into my mind.

“Miss Harlow?” Professor Wells called out, his tone a bit more tender than usual.

I raised my head, almost startled by the sound of his voice.

“Are you all right?” he asked, holding my gaze.

I hit the power button, and the screen locked with a soft click. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.” I rose to my feet, sliding my phone into the pocket of my baggy jeans.

He took off his glasses and gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying my claims. “You do realize that I teach psychology, right?”

My lips curled into a faint grin; he could probably see right through my lies. “I’m fine, Professor,” I insisted, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Thanks anyway.”

He didn’t push further; instead, he just watched me leave in silence, my shoes scuffing against the floor.

I took the stairs, distracted by my own thoughts throughout my descent.

The scent of freshly printed paper and yesterday’s pizza wafted through the air, and the hallway below was a blur of color and noise.

Students milled about in small groups, chattering and laughing under the bright corridor light.

I hadn’t taken two more steps past the staircase when I heard her voice from behind.

“There you are!” she said, yanking me into a casual headlock. “I thought you said you weren’t comin’ to class today,” she teased.

“Well, I changed my mind.”

“Lemme guess, that decision was largely influenced by fear of a certain Professor Wells.”

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “He doesn’t scare me. I just don’t wanna be….”

“…responsible for another one of his legendary takedowns in class.” She echoed my statement without missing a single word.

I stopped in my tracks, staring at her with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t look so shocked. There’s a reason I’m your best friend.”

“There’s that,” I said, my eyes crinkling at the corners. “And there’s also the fact that you could be a mind reader.”

She let out a dramatic gasp, her hand flying to her chest. “Evaline Martha Harlow, are you calling me a witch?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged my shoulders.

“That is so unacceptable.” She faked a frown, playfully slamming her fist into my shoulder.

“Aww. That hurt.”

“No, it didn’t.” She hit me even harder, then began tickling me all over.

I threw my head back and laughed, telling her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. For a moment, I forgot about my worries, an effect of Emika’s presence around me.

Emika Morgan was the closest thing I had to a sister, and she was the only person who knew how to lift my mood. She was part American and part Japanese. Emi was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old girl with gorgeous brown doe eyes and dark autumn hair that curled perfectly at the ends.

She stood at five-foot-two with a delicate face and a soft mouth that betrayed every emotion, no matter how hard she tried to mask it. Emi was idealistic, stubborn, playful, and deeply principled—traits that made her brilliant on paper but reckless in person.

She favored pencil skirts, button-ups, and flats, giving her a casual yet put-together look. However, her ink-stained fingers and bitten nails hinted at the stress beneath the composed exterior.

“Come on. Let’s go,” she said.

“Go where?”

“BrewHub, duh.” She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me along with her.

We crossed the street together, discussing random stuff like our favorite celebrity crushes, trending songs and movies, and so on. The tiny bells jingled when she pushed the door open, and we stepped into BrewHub, a café near campus.

The mouthwatering scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, blending with the aroma of toasted bagels and espresso.

Students sat at different tables and booths—some alone, others in groups. The atmosphere was alive with the soft hum of conversations and Taylor Swift’s new music playing in the background.

Emi and I began nodding along to “The Fate of Ophelia,” which suddenly lifted our spirits.

“All that time

I sat alone in my tower

You were just honing your powers

Now I can see it all…” we sang along, our voices low but filled with exuberance.

“Excuse me,” Emi called for the attention of the lady behind the counter. “Can I place an order, please?”

“Yeah, sure,” she answered. “Just ask Alexa.”

Emi’s eyebrows rose in astonishment, and she glanced at me, surprised. “All right,” she murmured, then faced a black, shiny metal jar. “Hey, Alexa, can I get a large iced caramel latte…?”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered to myself, slapping my forehead in shame.

Emi literally thought she was talking to an AI.

“Ma’am,” the girl behind the counter began.

“What?” Emi raised her head.

“That’s a milk pitcher,” she said, staring at my best friend in disbelief.

Emika straightened, her brows knitting together. “You said to ask Alexa….”

“Yeah, I meant her.” She pointed to the lady on the other side of the counter. “She’s Alexa.”

For a few seconds, no one said a word, and I watched the glint of awkwardness wash over Emi’s face. I pursed my lips and lowered my head, struggling to hold back my laughter even as my shoulders shook.

“Well, that’s not embarrassing at all,” Emi blurted out, shamelessly. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t talking about the AI Alexa?”

At this point, I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and a stifled laugh slipped from my lips.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” She cast a playful glare at me.

“It kinda is. I’m sorry,” I replied, amid chuckles.

She turned to the girl behind the counter. “Be more specific next time.” With that, she walked over to the actual Alexa to place our order.

About a minute later, we slid into the booth by the window and sat across from each other. Emi reached for her backpack, which sat beside her. She unzipped it and withdrew a small box. “Here,” she said, setting it on the table between us.

“What’s that?” I asked, curiosity lacing my tone.

“Just a little something,” she teased me with a smile.