Page 41 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Then she turns back and strikes.
Her hand grabs the vase from the shelf—thick crystal, meant for decoration. She doesn’t hesitate. She swings hard. The sound is clear. Final. His body drops like dead weight.
The drink in my hand grows warmer.
I set it aside and walk toward her, slow and unhurried. My boots sound loud against the stone. I let them. She needs to hear me.
She turns when I’m close enough.
Her eyes are wide. Her chest heaves. Her hands are shaking. The vase lies shattered at her feet, a thin line of blood trailing toward the edge of the hedge. She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I’ll do next. Like she doesn’t know what she’s just done.
She looks perfect.
“Well, that’s one way to make an impression at your first party. Messy form, but excellent follow-through. Remind me not to leave my good glassware unattended next time.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. Then—barely—she finds her voice. “I hit him.”
“You did,” I say. “Is he dead?”
She stares at the blood. “I don’t know.”
“Does it matter?”
Her mouth opens again, but she only shakes her head.
“You’re shaking.”
Her eyes rise to meet mine. There’s panic behind them, but there’s something else too. Something darker.
“You’re a fitting wife for me after all,” I add. I brush a lock of hair away from her face. She doesn’t flinch. “You didn’t freeze,” I say. “You struck and defended yourself.”
Her breath trembles. “I didn’t plan it.”
“That makes it better.”
Her hands are still shaking. Her fingers twitch like they don’t know what to hold on to. She’s pale, but she’s upright. She’s not crying.
I step in close.
I glance back toward the corridor. Yuri is already halfway down the path, another man just behind him. They don’t ask questions. They don’t need to.
“Take her to the car,” I say, my voice sharp and cold. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Yuri nods once. He reaches for Esme’s arm—not roughly, but firmly. She stiffens beneath his touch, eyes darting between me and the body still slumped on the ground. She doesn’t speak. There’s too much adrenaline in her system. Too much fear. Too much she hasn’t admitted yet.
Esme doesn’t resist when they lead her away.
I crouch beside the body. Aaron Clarke lies face down in the gravel, one hand curled beneath his chest, blood trailingfrom the gash above his brow. His breathing is shallow, and his mouth twitches faintly.
I study him for a long moment. His suit is expensive. His shoes are new. His loyalty was never worth the thread it was stitched to. He thought he could use her to get to me. He thought she would fold. She didn’t.
I exhale once through my nose and murmur low—something clipped and sharp, a curse born from contempt more than rage.
Then I draw my gun. The weight is familiar. My hand doesn’t shake.
He stirs; one eye cracks open, unfocused. There’s a flicker of confusion, then fear.
The shot is clean, spraying blood against the grass and stone behind him.
