Page 38 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a retort.
***
The car winds down a gravel path flanked by tall hedges and iron lanterns. The estate appears slowly, its old stonework glowing gold beneath the early evening lights. It is secluded,surrounded by dark woods and trimmed lawns, elegant without being showy. I recognize no one. That is by design.
Inside, the air smells like polished wood and wine. Low music drifts in from another room, soft enough to keep the atmosphere hushed. A handful of guests are scattered throughout the halls and garden terraces—men in sharp suits, women dressed in silk and suspicion. No laughter. No introductions. Just nods and low murmurs, the way people speak when their words have weight.
Kion says little, but his expression is content.
His hand rests lightly on my back, more suggestion than restraint. Still, I feel its weight. His presence beside me is like a shadow I cannot shake. Every step I take is seen, measured, claimed. He speaks quietly with a man near the garden doors, but his attention never leaves me. Not really.
I need air.
I slip out of the nearest open archway, thinking I can breathe for just a minute. The garden is quiet, lit by glass lanterns on iron hooks. Rosebushes and stone benches line the path. A breeze moves through the hedges, bringing with it the smell of earth and evening.
I don’t go far. Just to the edge of the path, where the light from the house still touches the gravel.
That’s when I hear the footsteps.
I turn slightly. A man I don’t recognize stands behind me—tall, dark-haired, handsome in a curated, almost too perfect way. His suit is tailored. His smile, polished. He holds a drink in one hand, his gaze on me a little too long.
“Didn’t think I’d find you out here,” he says. “I’m glad I did.”
“I just needed some air,” I reply, polite but firm.
He doesn’t take the hint.
“Aaron Clarke,” he offers. “Old friend of the family. You must be the bride.”
My spine stiffens. “Esme.”
“Esme,” he repeats slowly, like he wants to try it on. “Lovely name.”
I nod once, already edging toward the path. “It’s late. I should rejoin my husband.”
He steps in front of me, not blocking the path outright, but shifting just enough to change the air between us. “Why rush back?” he asks. “It’s rare to find someone so… interesting at these things.”
I glance toward the house. There’s no sign of Kion.
“Your dress,” he says, “it’s wasted on him.”
The blood in my veins cools. “Excuse me?”
Aaron’s smile tilts. “He doesn’t see you. Not really. Men like him, they own, they don’t appreciate. I see you, Esme. You don’t belong in that house. You’re not like them.”
I take a slow step back. “You should go.”
Instead, he moves closer. His hand brushes my bare arm. It lingers.
I stiffen. “Don’t.”
“I can help you,” he says, voice low. “If you want out—if you want to leave him—I know how to make that happen. You shouldn’t have to play his toy just to survive.”
Panic flares in my chest. “You don’t understand,” I whisper. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Oh, I do,” he says. “I know exactly what he is. What he’s done. What you’ve become just to stay breathing, but there’s still time, Esme. You could come with me. You don’t have to be his.”
I try to pull my arm away, but his grip tightens.
