Page 29 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
The thought sends something hot and electric through my veins.
She may be mine by name now, but nothing about her is claimed yet. Not in the way that matters.
I say nothing more as I lead her inside.
The house is quiet. Staff have been dismissed. Guards remain outside, but none greet us at the door. I unlock it myself, holding it open as she steps through. Her eyes flick upward toward the chandelier, toward the wide staircase, the marble floors. She’s taking it all in with the precision of someone who never wanted to be impressed.
She doesn’t wait to be guided. Esme moves forward, away from me, deeper into the house.
Life as a Bratva wife is no fairy tale. She will be guarded. Watched. Cut off from everything familiar, and she knows it. I see it in the set of her shoulders as she ascends the stairs. She is preparing herself for war.
I follow, silent behind her.
Chapter Nine - Esme
The water is too hot.
It burns as it pours over my shoulders, down my spine, searing across my skin like punishment. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I let it scald. Let it bite into me the way his eyes did at the altar, the way his fingers gripped my chin with quiet, possessive command.
I scrub hard. Harder than I should. My skin turns red beneath the lather, but I keep going. Like if I dig deep enough, I can scrape away the weight of the vows. The dress. The eyes of those men in the chapel, watching me like I was currency changing hands.
There’s no blood on me—not real blood. But it feels like there should be.
The soaps here smell expensive. Vanilla, honey, something floral I can’t name. None of it matters. I could bathe in gold and still feel dirty. I could scrub until I bleed and it wouldn’t change the truth.
He married me.
He claimed me, and I stood there and let him.
The towels are soft when I finally step out, too soft. The robe even more so, thick and silken and warm. It hugs my body like a lie. I wrap it around myself and turn toward the mirror.
I look like someone else.
The woman in the reflection is pale, her collarbone stark, her lips pressed into a line too thin to pass for calm. Her hair is damp and curling at the ends. Her eyes are wide, rimmed with fatigue; but behind the exhaustion is something else. Something sharper. Stubborn. Still burning.
My fingers brush the edge of the vanity. I grip it for a second.
I want to scream. Instead, I listen.
Nothing. Silence presses against the walls like smoke. I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of that door. That’s what keeps me frozen.
I breathe once, twice.
Then I move.
Each step toward the door feels slow, heavy. My heart pounds against my ribs. I can’t tell if it’s fear or something worse. Something I don’t want to name. A thrill. A flicker of heat from his touch earlier—his fingers brushing my arm with full intent, no apology.
I reach the door. I hesitate.
I’m not sure if I’m scared of him, or if I’m scared of what part of me might want him.
When I step out, he’s already there.
He sits sprawled in a leather chair, taking up too much space, as if he owns every square inch of it. One leg hooked over the other, a drink balanced in his fist. But it’s his eyes that pin me where I stand. He watches me the way a king surveys his latest conquest: not with tenderness, but with the arrogant expectation that I’ll fall apart for him, and for him alone.
The air thickens around us.
I stop just inside the doorway. The robe clings to my damp skin, heavy from steam, knotted tightly at my waist. My legs feel bare beneath it. My pulse pounds in my throat.
