Chapter Eight - Makar
Hannah’s breath trembles as I press the barrel of the gun to her temple. Her defiance is gone now, replaced with fear and something else—resignation, maybe. A shame. She’s young, her life barely started, and yet here she is, standing at the edge of death because of her choices.
Her skin is warm beneath the cold steel of the gun as I trace it slowly along the side of her face. The faint line of her jaw, the smooth curve of her neck—I follow them absently, detached from what comes next.
“It’s a pity,” I murmur, my voice low and calm. “You had your whole life ahead of you. Now….”
I don’t finish the sentence. There’s no need. The gun lingers just beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at me. Her brown eyes are wide, tears threatening to spill, but she holds my gaze, her lips trembling.
“Makar,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
The sound of my name on her lips is startling. Not boss, not sir, but Makar . It cuts through the cold detachment I’ve built around myself, sharp and unexpected.
“What?” I say, my tone clipped.
She swallows hard, her hands trembling at her sides. “I’m pregnant.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, and my grip on the gun falters slightly. I stare at her, my mind racing.
“Don’t lie to me,” I say, my voice dangerously low.
“I’m not lying,” she says quickly, her voice shaking. “I swear. I just found out, and—”
“How long?” I interrupt, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
She hesitates, her lips parting as she struggles to find the words. “A month,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
A month. The child barely exists at this point—a cluster of cells, not even a heartbeat. I grit my teeth, my jaw tightening as I try to process what she’s telling me.
I’m not going to kill an unborn child. Even I have limits.
Her breath catches, a flicker of hope crossing her face. “It’s your child,” she says, her voice firmer now.
I laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. “Is that so? How convenient for you to bring that up now.”
“I’m not making it up,” she insists, her voice rising. “It’s yours.”
“Prove it,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.
She hesitates again, but only for a moment. “It happened a month ago,” she says. “At the Ember House. The night I went into the VIP room to serve drinks. You were drunk, but you weren’t so far gone that you didn’t know what you were doing.”
The memory stirs faintly at the edge of my mind—flashes of that night. The low light of the VIP lounge, the burn of vodka, the softness of someone’s skin beneath my hands. I took her to my hotel room, I remember now.
I close my eyes briefly, the image growing clearer.
“You took my virginity,” she continues, her voice trembling but unrelenting. “Then you left. You didn’t even look back.”
I open my eyes, my gaze locking on to hers. Her face is pale, her chest rising and falling quickly, but her words carry weight, cutting through the haze of doubt.
“You remember,” she says softly, her voice barely audible.
I do. The realization settles over me like a heavy weight. That night, the blur of pleasure and heat—I hadn’t remembered her face until now, but the pieces fit.
I lower the gun slowly, my mind still racing.
“If this is a lie,” I say, my voice cold and sharp. “I won’t kill you. I’ll make you wish I had.”
She flinches, but she doesn’t look away.
“It’s not a lie,” she says, her voice steady now. “It’s the truth.”
I study her for a long moment, the silence between us heavy and suffocating. Her words hang in the air, impossible to ignore.
Pregnant. My child.
The gun feels heavier in my hand as I set it aside, my fingers flexing against the sudden tension in my chest. This changes everything, and yet, it changes nothing.
“Sit,” I order, my tone leaving no room for argument.
She hesitates but does as I say, lowering herself into the nearest chair.
“You’ve just made your situation more complicated,” I say flatly.
Her brows knit together in confusion, but she doesn’t speak, waiting for me to continue.
“Whether you’re telling the truth or not, you’ve made yourself a problem I can’t ignore,” I say. “Problems in my world don’t tend to last long.”
Her lips part, but whatever she was going to say dies on her tongue as I take a step closer, my gaze hard and unyielding.
“This isn’t over, Hannah,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Not by a long shot.”
The tension in the room is as thick as the silence that stretches between us. Hannah sits frozen in the chair, her hands gripping the armrests like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her face is pale, her lips pressed into a tight line, but her eyes—those wide, defiant brown eyes—meet mine without wavering.
It grates on me.
I pick up the gun from the table, spinning it idly in my hand before sliding it back into its holster. “Come,” I say, the command sharp and clipped.
She doesn’t move at first, her body stiff with hesitation.
“Hannah,” I say, my tone colder now, “if you’ve gotten this far without me shooting you, don’t push your luck.”
Her chair scrapes against the floor as she stands, her movements slow and cautious. I turn on my heel, not bothering to see if she’s following as I make my way out of the room. My boots echo against the marble floors of the hallway, her soft footsteps trailing behind me.
We ascend the stairs, the grandeur of the mansion swallowing her small frame. It feels almost absurd, seeing her here—someone so ordinary in a world that is anything but.
When we reach her room, I pull a key from my pocket, the metal glinting in the low light. I dangle it in front of her, the corners of my lips curving into a grin.
“This,” I say, letting the key swing gently on its ring, “is the only thing keeping you from freedom. Or what you think freedom is.”
Her eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance breaking through the fear.
I step closer, leaning in just enough to make her uncomfortable. “You’ll be locked in here for your own safety,” I say, my voice low and deliberate. “But every night, you’ll eat dinner with me. Tomorrow, you’ll see a doctor, and I’ll know if you’re lying.”
She flinches, the color draining from her face. “I’m not lying,” she whispers.
“For your sake,” I reply coldly, “I hope not.”
I slide the key into the lock, turning it with a soft click before pushing the door open. The room is exactly as I left it—plush bedding, elegant furnishings, and an en suite. Luxurious, but in her eyes, I know it must feel like a gilded cage.
She steps inside hesitantly, glancing back at me like she expects me to pounce.
“You’ll stay here,” I say, my hand still resting on the doorknob. “Don’t try to leave again, Hannah. I’m not feeling charitable tonight.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue.
I let the silence linger for a moment longer before pulling the door closed. The lock clicks into place, and I slip the key back into my pocket, the weight of it a tangible reminder of the control I hold.
As I head back to my office, Andrei is already waiting for me, leaning against the doorframe with his usual air of casual menace.
“She settling in?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“She’ll be fine,” I reply, brushing past him into the room.
Andrei follows, his boots thudding against the floor as he shuts the door behind him. “Fine, huh? You sound confident.”
I pour myself a glass of vodka, the burn of it grounding me as I take a sip. “If she has any self-preservation, she won’t try to leave again.”
Andrei smirks faintly, crossing his arms. “If she doesn’t?”
I set the glass down with a quiet clink, fixing him with a cold stare. “Then she’ll learn the hard way that this isn’t a game.”
He nods, his expression turning serious. “The… other thing?”
“She’s seeing a doctor tomorrow,” I say flatly. “If she’s lying, I’ll deal with it. If she’s not…”
I don’t finish the sentence, the weight of it hanging between us.
Andrei studies me for a moment, then nods again. “Understood.”
He turns to leave, but pauses at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “You sure about this, Boss? Letting her live, I mean. Feels… risky.”
“It is risky,” I admit, picking up the glass again. “It’s also calculated.”
Andrei says nothing, but his brows furrow.
“You’ve got something to say,” I remark, not bothering to look up from the glass of vodka in my hand.
Andrei shrugs, leaning against the wall. “You don’t usually let loose ends stick around. Especially ones this messy.”
I glance at him, my eyes narrowing. “You have a point, or are you just here to waste my time?”
His smirk is faint, but it’s there. “What happens if she’s telling the truth? About the kid?”
His question echoes in my mind, heavy and uncomfortable. I take a slow sip of vodka, letting the burn settle before I speak. “Then it complicates things.”
“Complicates?” Andrei repeats, raising an eyebrow. “That’s putting it mildly.”
I set the glass down with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “What do you want me to say; that I’ve thought about having children, that I’ve imagined building some perfect little family? You know me better than that.”
Andrei chuckles, shaking his head. “No, Boss. I know you don’t even like kids.”
“I don’t,” I admit, leaning back in my chair. “They’re loud. Annoying. Fragile.”
“And yet….” Andrei trails off, his tone pointed.
“Yet this is different,” I finish for him, my voice quiet but firm.
He studies me for a moment, his gaze sharp. “Why, because it’s yours?”
I meet his eyes, unflinching. “Yes.”
The admission surprises me as much as it seems to surprise him. Andrei straightens slightly, crossing his arms. “You’ve never struck me as the paternal type.”
“I’m not,” I say, my voice clipped. “If she’s carrying my child, that changes things. I don’t leave what’s mine to chance.”
Andrei smirks faintly, his head tilting. “You sound almost… protective.”
I glare at him, and he holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Boss. I’m just saying. It’s not like you.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
The silence stretches for a moment before Andrei speaks again, his tone more serious this time. “If it’s true, what happens next?”
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair. The thought of a child—a part of me I never asked for, never wanted—sits heavy in my chest. It’s not just about me anymore.
“If it’s true,” I say finally, my voice firm, “then I’ll do what needs to be done.”
Andrei nods, seeming satisfied with the answer. He turns to leave, pausing at the door.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, glancing back at me, “I think she’ll be fine. She’s tougher than she looks.”
I don’t respond, and a moment later, the door closes behind him.
Alone again, I pour another glass of vodka, the weight of the situation pressing down on me.
If she’s telling the truth, nothing will ever be the same.