Two Pink Lines

POV: Tessa.

He just grazed his warm lips against my cheek. That light brush of skin against skin is my first real kiss. It feels like a twisted nightmare. Growing up, my difficult, poverty-stricken childhood left zero room for romance or teenage flings. I was always too busy trying to keep food on the table, working double shifts just to survive, to ever have a boyfriend. Now, my own biological father has traded me away as human collateral to a monster to settle a debt.

Hot tears stream down my pale face as the reality sets in. I belong to Roman Volkov. Everyone in the underworld knows him. He is the unhinged, ruthless Mafia leader. I never knew his face until today, but I have heard the whispers. Rumor has it he slaughtered his own parents and brother just to seize power. He did terrible things to become the most feared man in Los Angeles, and somehow, I am trapped in his web.

Left alone in the room, I take a slow, shaky breath. I blink away the tears and begin to take in the massive master bedroom. It is bigger than my entire childhood house. A king-sized bed sits in the middle, draped in black silk sheets. Even the pillowcases are a deep, midnight black. Sleek black leather sofas rest against bare, stark gray walls. The expansive room has no pictures, no artwork, no personal touches. A black bedside drawer and a stark white clock are the only accents. The space screams of wealth and deep loneliness.

I touch my temple and wince. I need to wash off the dried, crusty blood from the brutal head wound my father gave me during our struggle. My skin feels sticky with sweat and fear.

Dragging my feet, I head straight to the massive walk-in closet. It is as big as the bedroom itself. The space is packed with expensive clothes bought specifically for me. Racks upon racks of garments line the walls. As I rifle through the hangers, dread pools in my stomach. The outfits consist of skimpy dresses and short miniskirts that leave nothing to the imagination. I spot sheer shirts and tight lingerie meant to display my body like a cheap toy. There are no trousers at all. I refuse to wear these degrading clothes. Digging deep into his side of the closet, I ignore the expensive suits. Finally, I pull out a massive, oversized sweater and a comfortable pair of Roman's own gray sweatpants.

I slip into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. His bathroom is massive, with dark marble floors. The steam rises quickly as I step under the hot spray for a frantic shower. The steamy air carries his distinct, masculine scent—fresh mint and sharp bergamot. It is an intoxicating scent that clings to the expensive soap. I let the hot water wash the sweat and blood off my skin, letting the warmth relax my frayed nerves for just a brief moment.

Stepping out of the shower, I dry off and dress. I clutch the oversized fabric to my chest. The sweatpants literally swallow my frame. I have to fold the waistband multiple times just to keep them from falling down. Looking in the mirror, I inspect the cut and bump on my head, a parting gift from my father. I swallow back another wave of tears and pull my long, wavy silver hair into a quick ponytail, using the hair band I always keep on my wrist.

I open the door and gasp.

Roman is standing right there in the middle of the room. He looks like a gorgeous, heavily tattooed nightmare. His broad shoulders block the light, and his piercing blue eyes lock directly onto my frame.

"Why are you wearing that?" he demands. His handsome face pulls into a deep scowl of displeasure. He points an accusing finger directly at the sweatpants hugging my hips. "That's mine."

I instinctively take a fearful step back, swallowing hard against the heavy lump in my throat. "I'm sorry," I stammer, struggling to find my voice. "The skirts in the closet... they are just way too short."

"I want it exactly that way, dove. It gives me easy access to you," he deadpans. His icy voice holds no shame, no hesitation. The raw truth in his words hits me like a physical blow. He expects my body to be available at all times.

Fresh tears prick my green eyes at the degrading comment. I am nothing but a body to him. "Please, just let me go," I beg, my voice cracking with desperation. "I'll work multiple jobs. I'll pay you all the money back. Just let me go, please."

"You're right here to stay, dove. Nothing is ever going to change that," he says firmly. His tone is like a heavy iron door slamming shut, instantly silencing my pathetic pleas. "You'll start wearing the short skirts tomorrow. Nolan is here. Come with me right now. You need to get checked up."

Defeated and drained, I silently follow his broad back downstairs. We reach the grand living room, where an elderly, professional-looking doctor waits patiently near the plush leather couch. A huge guard stands nearby, but my focus shifts to the open medical bag on the glass coffee table.

"Sit," Nolan instructs, his voice calm but authoritative.

I lower myself onto the leather couch. Nolan efficiently ties a tourniquet around my arm and draws a vial of my blood with a syringe. He works quickly, pulling out gauze and antiseptic to carefully clean and bandage the nasty wound on my head. I wince slightly as the sting fades into a dull throb.

Once the physical trauma is addressed, the old doctor clicks his pen and begins his interrogation. He examines my eyes with a small light. "How long have you been feeling sick like this, miss?"

"For weeks," I murmur softly. I drop my gaze to my lap, reluctant to admit the truth to strangers.

"And the vomiting?" Nolan asks.

"It's been going on for about a week now."

Nolan nods slowly, his pen scratching against his notepad. "Do you feel tired most of the time?"

"Yes," I whisper. A suffocating dread settles deep in my stomach. I have been silently praying against my own terrifying suspicions. The crushing fatigue dragging me down every morning cannot mean what I think it means. I cannot let my mind go there.

Then comes the dreaded, invasive question. "Are you currently having protected sex or are you on the birth control pill?"

My face drains of all color, turning a sickly ghost white. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I wasn't on the pill. And Roman hadn't used any form of protection that terrifying night in the club's VIP room. He just forced his cock inside me, taking my virginity without a second thought.

I stammer nervously. My tongue feels like lead. I am unable to form coherent words under the focused stares of both the doctor and the volatile mob boss standing mere feet away. "I... I... I..."

"What exactly are you insinuating, Nolan?" Roman suddenly interrupts. His deep voice cuts through the thick tension in the room, his lethal curiosity clearly piqued.

Nolan looks up, his expression professional and unyielding. "From the timeline of her specific symptoms, sir, I strongly think she's pregnant!"

My heart stops in my chest.

Damn it! Why am I so unlucky?