I lean into him, letting his strength hold me up. The pregnancy has made every emotion feel bigger, but so has this... Alexey’s unwavering presence. The way he keeps choosing me, even when the world tries to remind me how fragile everything is.
Revenge against Fadir is still burning.
But as I stand here in his arms, safe within the walls of the Sokolov compound, I realize something else is growing stronger.
The belief that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to face any of this alone.
***
I’m shaking, but not with fear of Fadir anymore. Instead, it’s with the overwhelming realization that the man beside me would take on the world to keep me and our baby safe.
The SUV ride back to the compound passes in a blur of tinted windows and Antone’s silent vigilance. Alexey’s arm is wrapped around me the entire way, his large hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of my belly.
Every few minutes, he presses a kiss to my temple or murmurs that I’m safe, that Fadir will never get close again. His voice is steady, but I can feel the tension coiled in his body. How he’s quiet with a precision that defines him now, sharpened into something fiercer.
When we finally pull through the iron gates and stop in front of the main house, Alexey helps me out, his hand never leaving the small of my back. Tikhon is waiting on the steps, his massive frame radiating barely contained anger on my behalf. But it’s Alexey’s face that undoes me. The age gap, the Bratva world, the way he moves with such quiet precision… it all hits me at once.
This man, the same one who once stormed into a warehouse with a gun and the calm threat of explosives, would destroy anything that tried to harm us. Not with loud rage or violence like the men from my childhood, but with methodical,unrelenting force. He would burn the world down if it meant keeping me and our baby safe.
The realization steals my breath.
Later that evening, I sit on the sofa in the family compound’s living room, legs tucked beneath me, a soft throw blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The room is warm and inviting, with deep leather couches, a crackling fireplace, and shelves lined with books and family photos, making the space feel lived-in rather than imposing. Pregnancy hormones make every emotion feel bigger and more obvious tonight. I can’t stop the thoughts from spinning.
I replay the violent men who came for my father back home when I was younger with the threats and the terror that made me flee at eighteen rather than be married off to settle debts. Those men were loud, brutal, and monstrous. They laughed while they destroyed our home. They spoke about me as if I were a prize to the victor.
I spent years painting every Bratva man with that same brush.
Alexey is none of those things.
He is patient. Methodical. Fiercely protective in a way that still terrifies me because it feels too good to be true. He didn’t yell when I told him about Fadir at the clinic. He didn’t storm off to hunt him down immediately. He held me. He listened. He made sure I was safe first, then started planning with that terrifying calm that makes powerful men nervous.
The black-and-white view I grew up with that “Bratva equals evil” has been dismantled so completely over the last several months that I barely recognize my own beliefs anymore.
The Sokolovs protect their own. They close ranks without question. They don’t prey on the vulnerable for sport. They build structures that last.
But the doubt still lingers.
The next morning, I seek quiet advice from Katya.
She meets me in the sunroom off the main kitchen, a gentle smile on her face as she pours us both herbal tea. The light is soft and golden, filtering through the windows and warming the wooden table between us. Katya looks elegant and composed, but there’s a deep understanding in her eyes that tells me she’s walked a similar path.
I don’t know how to start, so I just begin talking.
“I saw Fadir yesterday,” I say quietly. “Outside the clinic. He tried to talk to me. He’s still spreading those lies about the baby being his.” My voice cracks. “I am so scared. Not just for me, but for the baby. And then Alexey… he is so calm, but I could see the anger underneath. It all hit me at once—the age difference, this world, how protective he is. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to realize I’m too broken, too marked by my past, and decide I’m not worth it.”
Katya listens, her hand reaching across the table to cover mine. When I finally fall silent, she speaks with quiet understanding.
“I felt the same terror after Fadir targeted me,” she says softly. “I grew up hearing the same stories you did. Stories that would make your skin crawl, violence, broken homes, and women used as pawns. When I first realized this world is one I’d never escape from, I was convinced every Sokolov man is a monster waiting to reveal himself. It took time to separate the code they actually live by from the nightmares I was raised with.”
She squeezes my hand gently and continues.
“The Sokolovs protect women and children above all else. It’s not just words. It’s the foundation on which everything else is built. Alexey isn’t like the men who came for your father. He’s not like Fadir. He’s choosing you every single day, and not because you’re useful, not because of the baby, but because you’re you. The pregnancy makes everything feel bigger and scarier, I know. But that fear doesn’t mean the safety isn’t real.”
Her words ease some of the weight in my chest, but the doubt still lingers.
“The war with Fadir feels truly over,” I whisper, “but I’m still carrying everything I survived. The baby growing inside me. The way Alexey keeps choosing us without demanding anything in return. I’m closer to trusting this life than ever before… but I’m not there yet. Part of me wonders if I can truly handle being a Bratva wife and raising a child in this world without repeating the cycle of fear I ran from before.”
“No one is ever fully ready. I'm not. But you’re not repeating the cycle. You’re breaking it. You ran from fear once. Now you’re choosing to stay and build something better—for yourself and for your child. That takes more strength than running ever did,” Katya’s expression softens with empathy.
