Chapter Twenty-Seven - Karmia
Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months. By now I’m showing, a noticeable curve to my stomach even in loose blouses and skirts.
The estate is gilded, polished to perfection, its marble halls gleaming like something out of a fairy tale—but it suffocates me all the same. A golden cage is still a cage.
Each day blurs into the next—meals in silence, guarded walks through manicured gardens, nights that end in restless dreams. I ache for something—anything—that feels like mine. A way to claw back a piece of myself before I forget I ever existed outside these walls.
It’s a slow afternoon when I find myself wandering without aim, my steps carrying me down corridors I rarely use. I drift past Rostya’s office, the heavy door left slightly ajar. Curiosity hooks me. I nudge it open and pause on the threshold.
Ivan sits at the desk, hunched over a laptop.
The glow of the screen paints his face, hard and intent.
Lines of code flicker past, interspersed with security logs, maps, and scrolling alerts.
He doesn’t notice me at first, his fingers moving quick, steady, practiced.
I lean against the doorframe, something stirring in me I haven’t felt in months—interest.
“What is that?” I ask.
His head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I ignore the warning and step closer. “You’re tracking something. Signals, alerts?”
His jaw tightens. “It’s Bratva business. Not for you.”
I edge nearer, eyes fixed on the screen. The hunger inside me sharpens. This I understand, this world of code and systems, though it’s been months since I last touched it.
“Show me,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Ivan snorts, shaking his head. “You think Rostya would allow it? If he knew I let you—”
“He doesn’t have to know,” I cut in, heart thudding. “Please. I just… I need to do something. Anything.”
For a long moment he stares, lips pressed in a grim line. Then I see it. The shift, the resignation. My persistence wears him down like water over stone. With a muttered curse, he swivels the screen toward me. “Fine. Basics only. Nothing that matters.”
He explains, clipped and sharp, how they monitor minor alerts, scan for suspicious activity, reroute signals across decoys. I listen, clinging to every word. My fingers itch to touch the keyboard. When he finally lets me, the rush is immediate, electric.
The interface is crude compared to what I once knew, but the logic is the same. Within minutes I’m tracing small alerts, following threads of activity through digital corridors.
Ivan leans back, arms crossed, watching me. “Hmph.” A whistle slips past his teeth. “Didn’t expect that.”
I glance at him, a spark I thought was dead flickering alive inside me. My hands move with purpose again, quick and precise. For the first time in months, I feel something sharp burn in my chest.
***
The news spreads through the estate faster than smoke. By nightfall, the quiet walls are buzzing with whispers, and I know before I even hear the heavy thud of boots that it’s only a matter of time.
Rostya storms into the office, the air shifting as though thunder itself has walked in. His eyes blaze, sharp and lethal, pinning me where I stand. The door slams behind him, the sound reverberating through my chest. Ivan stiffens in his chair, already bracing for impact.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?
” Rostya’s voice is low, rough, dangerous.
He steps closer, each stride deliberate, controlled violence wrapped in human form.
“You think you can just insert yourself into my world? Into this?” His hand cuts toward the screen, toward the Bratva’s systems that still glow under my fingertips.
My stomach knots, but I refuse to shrink. I lift my chin, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I wasn’t trying to take anything from you. I just… I can’t keep sitting idle. I wanted to help.” My words wobble, but I don’t stop. “I can do more than wait in your halls like a ghost.”
His presence looms over me, fury rolling off him in waves. Any sane part of me screams to step back, to cower, to retreat. I don’t. I stand rooted, refusing to let him see fear.
Something flickers in his eyes—curiosity, maybe disbelief. Then, without a word, he strides to the desk and seizes control of the system. Fingers flying, he pulls up a live breach attempt, the red flashing alert painting the room in warning.
“You want to help?” His voice is all steel. “Then stop this.”
Ivan’s eyes go wide, darting between us. “Boss, that’s—”
“Quiet,” Rostya snaps.
The screen pulses with hostile code, rival hands clawing at the edges of their defenses. It’s too much, too fast, meant for someone with experience to crush. A trap. My heart slams against my ribs, but I force myself to breathe, to focus.
I slide into the chair, palms damp, and begin to work. Fingers dance across the keys, tracing the breach back to its origin point, isolating the fragments one by one. The rival’s attack digs hard, but I dig deeper. Redirect, block, seal. My lungs burn with the effort, every second stretching taut.
Then the red fades. The system stabilizes. The breach dies.
Silence floods the room, deafening after the storm of keystrokes. I sag back in the chair, chest heaving, staring at the darkened monitor.
Ivan lets out a slow whistle, shaking his head in disbelief.
Rostya says nothing at first. His gaze rakes over me, unreadable, a weight heavier than any threat. For a moment I think he’ll dismiss me, reduce my effort to nothing.
Then, rough and grudging, the words come. “Not bad.”
It isn’t much, but from him, it feels like the world shifting.
The words linger long after the office has emptied.
Not bad. Rough, grudging, but real. I tuck the flicker of a smile into my sleeve before Rostya can see it, but the warmth it sparks refuses to die.
Pride blooms in my chest, small and fragile, yet fiercer than anything I’ve felt since this nightmare began.
For months I’ve been caged, stripped of use and worth, but today… today I mattered.
That evening, we share dinner. The long table feels different now—less a battlefield, more a bridge. The silence between us no longer suffocates. It breathes.
I steal glances at him, noticing the way his gaze keeps drifting back, not weighted with suspicion this time, but with something else. Something searching, almost hungry. The air between us hums with it, and I can’t bring myself to look away for long.
When I finally excuse myself, retreating toward the bedroom, his footsteps follow.
Heavy, certain. My breath falters. His presence fills the doorway before I can even light the lamp, a shadow cut in dominance and curiosity both.
The room feels smaller with him in it, the air charged, my pulse a drumbeat in my throat.
I perch on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in my skirts. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His gaze pins me, waiting. Demanding.
I hesitate, heart clawing at my ribs, before the words slip out, trembling but true. “I… felt something today. Something new.” My hand drifts to my stomach, pressing lightly. “The baby. It moved. The first kick.”
The air shifts instantly.
His gaze drops to where my hand rests, and for once the sharpness drains from him entirely. The steel in his posture softens, his breath stutters, and he stands utterly still. There’s a silence stretching between us.
For the first time, I see him unguarded—not the Bratva wolf, not the empire’s ruler, but a man caught in something he cannot command. His eyes linger on my stomach as if he’s seeing more than flesh, as if he’s seeing the fragile spark of a future he never imagined.
The room holds its breath with him.
His hand hovers, uncertain, the faintest tremor in fingers I have only ever seen curled around weapons or clenched in rage.
Slowly, almost reverently, he lets me guide him, my palm pressing his broad hand down against the curve of my stomach.
The silence stretches, thick with expectation, both of us holding our breath.
Then it happens—small, faint, but undeniable.
A kick, like a ripple beneath the surface of still water.
His breath catches. I feel it more than hear it, a sharp hitch in his chest. His gaze snaps to mine, and for the first time since I’ve known him, his expression softens in a way that steals my own breath away.
The hardness melts, just for a moment, leaving behind something raw, vulnerable, almost human.
I can’t help it, I smile. It blooms without thought, breaking through the fear and the months of suffocating silence. It’s not forced, not a mask. It’s real. And when I see his mouth twitch, then curve in answer, it disarms me more than any threat ever could.
We sit there, suspended in something I don’t have a name for.
His hand stays pressed against me, warm and steady, as if he’s afraid to let go.
I see a version of him in this moment I never thought possible—a man stripped of empire, stripped of blood, left only with the truth of himself. No Bratva wolf. Just Rostya.
And it feels unshakable.
The pull between us grows unbearable, thickening with every second of silence.
My heart hammers as I lean forward, the instinct as natural as breathing.
He meets me halfway. Our lips brush lightly, hesitant, fragile—like neither of us dares to believe this is real.
My hands find his chest, resting against the steady drum of his heartbeat, and his lips linger on mine, tasting, testing.
The hesitation doesn’t last.
The kiss deepens, heat sparking to life in an instant.
His mouth claims mine, hungry and fierce, and I yield, answering with a desperation I’ve been denying since the day he chained me to his world.
My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, and his free hand rises to cradle my jaw, firm but tender.
The weight of months of silence, fury, fear, it all crashes into this moment, sealing itself in fire.
We break for breath only to fall back together, lips colliding again, hungrier, needier, as if both of us know we can’t let the moment slip away. His kiss is rough, yes, but threaded with something gentler underneath, something that terrifies me more than his violence ever has.
When we finally part, our foreheads rest together, his breath warm against my skin. The echo of the baby’s kick still lingers between us, unspoken but heavy, binding us tighter than any vow. His hand has never left my stomach, thumb brushing in an absent circle that feels almost protective.
I realize the truth that chills me to the bone.
The cage has changed shape.
Once it was iron bars, sharp edges, fear locking me in. Now it feels like velvet, soft but no less confining, a trap of warmth and touch and the unthinkable possibility of love. I should want to escape more than ever. I should be plotting, clawing for freedom.
What terrifies me most is that I no longer want to break free. I want this. His hand on me, his mouth on mine, his eyes stripped of violence long enough to show me the man buried underneath.
The empire outside our door still waits, bloodstained and brutal. Here, in the quiet of the bedroom, I find myself shackled by something far stronger than chains. The truth presses against me, undeniable and terrifying, if this is captivity, then I no longer know if I want release.