Page 76 of Cruel Submission

Of course it’s too much. What the fuck did I expect? That I’d confess to killing my brother, my mother’s suicide, human trafficking, murder—and she’d just accept it? Accept me?

I’m a fucking idiot.

She’s carrying my child, and I’ve just given her every reason to run. To pack that bag sitting in the garden and disappear. Take my baby and build a life somewhere I can’t touch it. Can’t ruin it the way I ruin everything else.

And the worst part? She should.

She should run. Should take our child far away from me and my father and the Bratva and all the violence that comes with it. Should find some normal man with a normal job who doesn’t have blood on his hands. Who won’t teach their child how to kill. Who won’t pass down trauma like it’s a family heirloom.

But the thought of losing her—losing them both—is unacceptable to me.

I’ve lost everyone. Mishka. My mother. Rosanna in a different way. Every person I’ve ever cared about has either died or been destroyed by proximity to me.

And now Mirabel.

The only woman who ever saw through my bullshit and still chose to stay. The only person who made me think I could be something other than what my father made me.

She’s going to leave.

And I’ll let her. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You let them go. You let them save themselves.

Even if it kills you.

“Da. Take your time,” I manage. My voice sounds like gravel. “Take as long as you need.”

She nods. Doesn’t look at me.

I stand there like an idiot. Waiting for something. Forgiveness? Understanding? Some sign that she won’t disappear?

But she just sits. Staring at her hands. Processing the magnitude of what I’ve just unloaded on her.

I should leave. Give her space. Let her think without me hovering like some desperate pizda.

But my feet won’t move.

Because the moment I walk out that door, this ends. Whatever we had—whatever we could have had—it’s over. And I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what our child looks like. If they have her eyes or mine. If they’re smart like her or fucked up like me.

Blyad.

I’m going to lose everything.

Again.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mirabel

I stand up and let my legs carry me back to my bedroom.

Just a few hours ago, I was going to leave for good. The duffel bag still sits by the door where I dropped it, mocking me. All those carefully folded clothes. The toiletries wrapped in plastic bags. The ultrasound photo tucked into my wallet.

I’d been so sure.

I draw the curtains. The late afternoon sun is too bright, too cheerful, too much. The darkness helps. Makes the room feel smaller. Safer. Like I can hide here, and the world will forget I exist for a little while.

Fuck, this is insane!

I lie on the bed I thought I’d never sleep on again. The same sheets. The same pillow I’ve slept on since I arrived. Yet everything feels different. My body sinks into the mattress, and I stare at the ceiling, counting the crown molding details I’ve memorized over the past months.