Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stella
The words on my tablet blur together as I stare at them without comprehension.
Something about neurotransmitters and synaptic connections, but my mind keeps drifting to the unanswered text I sent three hours ago.
My fingers trace the edge of my tablet, following the same nervous pattern they’ve been repeating since I hit send.
The scientific terms that usually fascinate me — dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin — mock me with their relevance to my current situation.
Chemical reactions in the brain leading to attachment, to poor decision making, to…
My eyes drift back to the phone for the hundredth time. Still no response. I force myself to look at the tablet again, determined to at least feel productive. The paragraph about neural pathways swims before my eyes:
The mechanism by which neurons communicate involves the release of chemical messengers across a synapse…
The sudden blaring ring of my phone makes me jump, tablet clattering to the floor. My heart pounds as I grab for it, hands trembling as I see the caller ID.
Aleksei Tarasov.
Shit!
Holy shit!
I’d sent the message without truly anticipating a response. Now what do I do?
“Answer it, stupid,” says Boyana.
My trembling finger hits accept, but instead of Aleksei’s voice, I hear what sounds like a riot — shouts, screams, the crash of something breaking.
“Hello?” I press the phone harder against my ear, straining to make sense of the chaos.
More crashes. A woman’s hysterical voice rises above the din, followed by rapid-fire Russian that I can barely follow. Something about “humiliation” and “family honor.”
I pull the phone away, checking to make sure I didn’t imagine his name on the caller ID. The call is still connected, but all I can hear is more shouting and what sounds like running footsteps.
“Hello? Is anyone-?”
“Where are you?” Aleksei’s voice suddenly cuts through the mayhem, sharp and commanding. The background noise seems to recede, as if he’s moved somewhere quieter.
“I- I’m at home,” I stammer, caught off guard by his tone. It’s not a question so much as a demand.
“Address. Now.”
My mouth goes dry at the authority in those two words. This isn’t the passionate stranger from that night or even the controlled Bratva boss from his office. This is something else entirely.
“I can’t just—”
“Your address, Stella.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “Don’t make me ask again.”
“4510 Sycamore Avenue, Apartment 3B,” I manage to get out. The words feel strange on my tongue, like I’m giving away a secret I shouldn’t.
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen, the call duration mocking me. Forty-seven seconds. Less than a minute to completely upend my world.
My hands won’t stop shaking as I set the phone down. The background noise during that call — the screaming, the chaos — replays in my mind. What have I done? What was I thinking, sending that text?
“You weren’t thinking,” Boyana chimes in. “That’s the problem.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, pacing to my window. The street below looks ordinary, peaceful. Cars parked along the curb, Mrs. Carter walking her Pomeranian, everything exactly as it always is. Yet nothing feels normal.
I check my phone again. No new messages, no missed calls. Just the silence after his demand for my address.
Time stretches out, each minute lasting an hour. I straighten the pillows on my couch, then mess them up again. Pick up my tablet from where it fell, set it on the coffee table, move it to the kitchen counter instead.
“He’s coming,” Boyana says unnecessarily. “The Bratva boss you slept with is coming to your apartment.”
My stomach lurches at her words. Morning sickness or nerves? Both?
I press my forehead against the cool glass of my window, trying to slow my racing thoughts. The insanity I heard in that call — what did I just invite into my life?
The sharp rap at my door makes me jump, even though I’ve been anticipating it. Three hard knocks that echo through my apartment like gunshots.
I force myself to move forward. Through the peephole, I see him — Aleksei Tarasov in what looks like formal wear, though his tie is loosened and his jacket is wrinkled. His jaw is clenched, shoulders rigid with tension.
My fingers fumble with the locks. The door opens before I’m ready, before I can compose myself or figure out what to say.
He fills the doorframe, radiating contained violence. His dark eyes scan my face, then drop to my midsection. The intensity of his gaze makes me want to cross my arms protectively over my stomach.
“Proof.” The word comes out clipped, demanding. His accent is thicker than I remember, like his anger is affecting his English.
“I- What?”
“Show me the test.” He steps into my apartment without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind him with controlled precision that somehow feels more threatening than if he’d slammed it.
My hands start trembling again. “It’s in my purse.”
His eyes narrow. “Get it.”
The command in his voice makes me bristle despite my fear. “You don’t get to just—”
“Now.” The word cuts through my protest like a knife.
I fumble through my purse with shaking hands, painfully aware of Aleksei’s intense stare. The doctor’s report crinkles as I pull it out, the official letterhead making this all feel suddenly, terrifyingly real.
“Here.” I hold it out, hating how my voice wavers.
Aleksei snatches the paper, his eyes scanning the medical terminology. I watch his face, catching each micro-expression — the slight widening of his eyes at the hormone levels, the tightening of his jaw at the estimated conception date.
“Three weeks.” His accent wraps around the words like silk over steel.
“Yes.” I resist the urge to step back as he moves closer, his presence filling my small living room.
“Pack what you need.” He folds the paper with precise movements. “You’re moving to the manor tonight.”
“What??” The word comes out as a squeak. “I can’t just—”
“This is not a discussion.” His brow furrows. “My child will not be raised in this…” His gaze sweeps dismissively around my apartment. “This place.”
“Your child?” Heat rises in my cheeks. “Don’t I get a say in-?”
“No.” He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “You lost that right when you waited so long to tell me.”
The accusation stings, especially because he’s right. I had delayed, hoping… what? That the situation would somehow resolve itself?
“It wasn’t that long!” I object sharply. “It was…only a couple of days.”
“Too long. Get your things.”
“But I have a job,” I protest weakly. “A life here.”
“Had.” His correction feels like a door slamming shut. “Your new life begins tonight.” He turns his attention to his phone and starts making calls.
Anger begins to rise. “Hey!” I say sharply. When he doesn’t respond, I shove his arm. It’s rock-hard.
He turns to face me, ending his call. “What?”
“You can’t just do this,” I say, hands on my hips. “You can’t just walk in here and tell me to turn my whole world upside down.”
“I can do anything I want.” His tone is infuriating.
“Not to me!” I stick my jaw out.
“Stella, you’ve been to my house. Seen into my world. Do you think you could ever escape me?”
“What are you talking about?” There’s a cold sensation building in my gut.
“You are having my child. If you think for one second that I will allow you to do this without me, you are wrong.”
“I’m not going with you. You can’t make me.” I hate the fact that I sound like a rebellious teen.
“I can make you.”
“Then I’ll leave. You’d have to lock me up.”
“Do you think I wouldn’t?” He tilts his head.
I gasp. “No,” I exhale the word.
“Woman, you will stay in my home until you have this baby. If you try to leave, I will hunt you down, take you back and shackle you in my cellar.”
I stare at him in abject horror. “You wouldn’t,” I choke.
He lifts one dark eyebrow in a gesture that says “try me.”
When I take a step away, he puts his phone to his ear and makes another call as calmly as if he didn’t just threaten to turn me into his prisoner.
I sink onto my couch, legs shaking as Aleksei paces my small living room. His rapid-fire Russian fills the space, each sharp command making me flinch. Through the fog of shock, I catch fragments — something about cars, security teams, immediate relocation.
This can’t be happening.
My hand drifts to my stomach instinctively. Not too long ago, I was just an event planner with normal problems. Now I’m pregnant with a Bratva boss’s baby, and he’s… what? Kidnapping me?
“Twenty minutes,” Aleksei snaps into his phone. “Not one minute later.”
I open my mouth to object, to assert some control over my own life, but the words die in my throat as he turns those dark eyes on me. The intensity of his stare pins me in place.
He barks another order in Russian, his free hand running through his hair in a gesture that somehow makes him look more dangerous rather than frustrated. The movement draws my attention to his disheveled formal wear — he’s in a tuxedo.
What happened before he came here?
The chaos I heard during that phone call echoes in my memory. Screaming, crashes, accusations about honor…
Aleksei’s voice cuts through my thoughts, switching to English. “Full security detail. Level one protocols.” His eyes lock onto me again before he continues. Something about clearing the left wing, immediate staff reassignment.
My apartment feels smaller with each passing second, shrinking under the weight of his authority. The familiar walls that once represented my independence now feel like they’re closing in.
“This is really happening,” Boyana whispers. “He’s taking control of everything.”
I want to argue, to fight back, but the words stick in my throat. The determined set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders — everything about him radiates an absolute certainty that resistance is futile.
His eyes fasten on me again and I resist the urge to shrink back.
“Why aren’t you packing?”
“Because… because…” I don’t have an answer.
Actually, I do, but I’m pretty sure that “Go to hell” is going to get me in shit.
“Now!” he barks and I give a small jump.
“Coward!” Boyana laughs, but I’m not listening because I’m already halfway to my bedroom.
My hands shake as I pull open dresser drawers, trying to focus on what I actually need versus what I want to take. Aleksei’s presence behind me feels heated, his impatience radiating across the small space of my bedroom.
“Five minutes.” His voice carries that same commanding tone that makes my spine stiffen.
I grab handfuls of underwear and socks, shoving them into my overnight bag. “I can’t just throw everything in without—”
“Three minutes now.”
The urge to throw something at him wars with my instinct for self-preservation. Instead, I yank open my closet, the hangers scraping against the rod as I pull out work clothes.
“Leave those.” Aleksei steps closer, his cologne mixing with the familiar scent of my laundry detergent in a way that makes my head spin. “You won’t need them.”
“I still have a job,” I grit out.
His laugh holds no humor. “Not anymore.”
Is he fucking kidding me?
I grab the clothes anyway, my small act of defiance making my hands steadier as I fold them into the bag. The sound of his footsteps pacing behind me sets my teeth on edge.
My fingers brush against the soft material of my favorite sweater — the one I wear when I need comfort. The urge to curl up in it and pretend none of this is happening nearly overwhelms me.
“Two minutes.”
“Stop counting!” I spin to face him, clutching the sweater to my chest. “I can’t think with you—”
The words die in my throat as I take in his expression — dark eyes focused entirely on me, jaw clenched in barely contained frustration. His presence seems to fill every corner of my small bedroom, making it hard to breathe.
“One minute.” His accent thickens with each word. “Or I tell security to pack for you.”
I turn back to my closet, shoving clothes into the bag without looking at what I’m grabbing.
There’s a knock at the door, and he turns away, leaving me dithering in front of my closet. The pressure is making me indecisive.
He returns a moment later, impatiently taking the bag from me. “ Zakonchi etol , pack what she needs,” he says to someone behind me.
My cheeks burn as two men in black suits methodically move through my bedroom, efficiently packing my most private possessions. One opens my underwear drawer without hesitation, transferring everything into a suitcase while I stand frozen in horror.
“The books, too,” Aleksei commands from the doorway. “All of them.”
I watch helplessly as they strip my bookshelves bare, my precious neuroscience texts and medical journals disappearing into boxes. Years of carefully organized research notes and margin annotations, handled like they’re just more items on a checklist.
“The bathroom,” Aleksei directs, and a third man appears with my toiletry bag. He moves through my personal space with clinical detachment, sweeping my medications, vitamins, and feminine products into the bag without pause.
“Thank God there’s no need for sanitary towels!” Boyana is remorseless.
“Stop,” I whisper, but no one acknowledges me. They continue their efficient invasion of my privacy, following Aleksei’s rapid-fire instructions in Russian.
Finally, he turns to face me. “Come,” he says, then heads to the door without looking back to see if I’m behind him. He simply expects that I’ll do as I’m told. And for some reason, I do.
I follow Aleksei down the stairs, my legs moving on autopilot while my mind races to catch up with the last twenty minutes. Two security men flank us, carrying my hastily packed belongings like they’re transporting classified documents instead of my underwear and books.
The evening air hits my face as we exit the building. Mrs. Carter stands frozen on the sidewalk, her Pomeranian straining at the leash while she gapes at the line of black SUVs blocking the street.
“Inside.” Aleksei’s hand on my lower back guides me toward the nearest vehicle. The touch sends electricity through my spine despite my confusion and anger.
I slide into the leather interior, the new car smell mixing with Aleksei’s cologne as he settles into the seat next to me. Through the tinted windows, I watch his security loading my belongings into another SUV.
The driver pulls away from the curb, and I press my hand against the window. My apartment building shrinks in the side mirror. Years of independence, of building a life, disappearing behind us as we turn off my street.
Aleksei’s phone buzzes constantly beside me, but he ignores it. His presence fills the backseat, making breathing feel like a strenuous effort. I want to demand answers, to assert some control over this situation, but I don’t.
It’s like this man — this force of nature — has just swirled into my world and taken full control.
And I’ve let him.