Page 39 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
His expression shifts, the mask slipping. The smile turns mocking. “Too late to pretend you like it,” he mutters. “Everyone knows. He owns you, but it doesn’t have to stay that way.”
“Let go,” I say, louder now.
He doesn’t.
I twist again, heart hammering. The panic turns jagged. His fingers dig into my arm. The garden feels too quiet. My breath shortens. My eyes flick around. There’s no guards, no Kion either.
Then I see it.
A crystal vase on the stone shelf beside the path. Heavy. Decorative. Left from some forgotten floral arrangement.
I don’t think. I just act.
My hand flies up, fingers closing around the base of the vase. I swing with everything I have.
The crystal connects with a sickening crack.
Aaron’s eyes widen just before he collapses. His knees buckle. He hits the ground in a heap, drink spilling beside him, blood blooming from his temple.
I freeze. The vase clatters from my hand and rolls across the stone. My breathing is ragged. My arms shake. My legs won’t move.
Aaron’s body lies twisted at the base of the hedge. Still. Silent.
Maybe he’s unconscious, maybe worse.
I stare at him.
Aaron lies in a crumpled heap beside the hedge, blood trickling down his temple. One of his arms is twisted awkwardly beneath him. His drink has stained the gravel beneath him witha dark red smear. I don’t know if it’s wine or blood, and I don’t want to look closer.
My hands are still raised, frozen midair.
My breath comes in shallow gasps, chest rising and falling too fast. I’m shaking—violently. My knees threaten to give out. I clutch my arms close to my body, as if I can hold myself together that way.
I don’t move.
I should feel sick. I should feel horror or revulsion or regret. I should feel something.
Except, all I feel is the echo of the moment. The heaviness of the vase in my hand. The sharp, horrible satisfaction of the impact. The way his eyes widened when he realized I meant it. The way his body folded, helpless.
Something inside me whispers,he deserved it.
That thought terrifies me more than anything else.
The silence thickens around me. Heavy. Pressing. Then I feel it—like a shift in the air, like a sixth sense.
I am no longer alone.
Kion steps out from the shadows along the garden wall, arms folded across his chest. He wears no expression at first. His suit catches the low light. His jaw is relaxed. His posture casual.
Then he smirks. His gaze drags over the scene. The blood. The broken crystal. Me.
His eyes find mine and stay there.
He walks toward me with slow, deliberate steps, his boots crunching lightly over the gravel. He doesn’t glance at Aaron. He doesn’t ask what happened. He already knows. He saw enough. Maybe all of it.
I stand frozen in place, fists clenched, breath uneven.
A slow, wolfish grin unfurls on his lips—one that says he’s enjoying this.
