Page 36 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I watch her wrestle with herself.
“You could’ve left me in the dark,” she mutters. “You should have.”
“Then I wouldn’t get to see this,” I say, nodding toward her chest. “The way your heart beats when you think you’ve figured me out.”
She flushes, furious.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“No, you don’t,” I reply. “You’re just not sure what it is you feel. Not yet.”
She opens her mouth to snap back, but nothing comes out.
For a moment, I think Esme might throw the book. Then her hand lowers slowly, still trembling, still white-knuckled around the spine like she can’t decide whether to hurl it at my chest or hold it to her like a lifeline. Her breathing is sharp. Too fast. Anger still burns in her eyes, but beneath it, I see the cracks forming.
I step closer.
She doesn’t move away. That’s her first mistake.
I reach for her waist, slow and steady, fingers slipping past the folds of her robe to find the bare heat of her skin. Herbreath catches as I pull her forward, close enough that her chest brushes mine, the book now pinned between us.
She opens her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to scream—but I don’t give her the chance.
I lean in and speak against her ear. “Need I remind you, you’re mine now.”
The words are low. Quiet, but there’s nothing gentle about them.
My hand slides higher, fingers splayed against the curve of her back, keeping her exactly where I want her. Her body stiffens beneath my touch, every muscle drawn tight. Still, she doesn’t pull away.
I pin her close, grip unyielding. “Don’t make me repeat myself—you’re mine. Everyone in this house knows it. You think you can walk away? Try it. I dare you.”
I feel her shiver.
I lean in, let my mouth graze her ear—deliberately, possessively. “Anyone so much as thinks about touching you, I’ll make an example of them. You’ll watch me do it, and you’ll thank me for the privilege.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. Her nails dig into the cover of the book like she needs something to hold on to. Her pulse thrums against my jaw.
“You want to hate me,” I say. “You think that makes you safe.” My hand grips her tighter. She gasps as her hips bump into mine. “I know what’s happening inside you.”
Her thighs press together, just slightly, and I smile in satisfaction.
“You’re starting to crave it,” I whisper, nipping at her ear. “You hate that you do, but you want more.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t prove that.”
I smile against her skin. “You’ll beg for it eventually,” I say. “You’ll beg for me, just as I deserve.”
Her breath stutters.
I don’t speak the next part out loud, but the truth is already settled in my mind like a blade buried in bone.
She has me, heart and soul. Entirely. Irrevocably. Whether she knows it or not.
I pull back slowly, just enough to look at her.
Her eyes are still wide, lips parted, chest rising too fast beneath the robe. The book is clutched between us, forgotten now. Her body’s still pressed to mine, her breath still shaking. She hasn’t said a word, not since I spoke those truths into her ear—truths she doesn’t want to believe, but can’t quite deny.
I watch her for a moment longer, just to see if she’ll break the silence.
