Page 42 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
A lesson has been given, one that won’t need repeating.
***
The house is quiet now.
Cleaned. Silent. Controlled.
The garden has been swept and scrubbed, the blood rinsed from the stones. The broken vase is gone. So is the body. No questions were asked, and none will be. The guests returned to their drinks, their games, their careful conversations. No one mentioned what happened. They all understood exactly what it meant.
Esme hasn’t spoken since.
She’s locked herself in her room, or pretended to. She didn’t scream. She didn’t sob. The maids say she walked upstairs on her own, sat on the edge of the bed, and hasn’t moved.
I let the silence sit for a while, but now, I want answers.
I want to see how deep tonight really went. I want to see what lingers in her eyes when no one else is watching.
So I push the door open and step inside, slow and quiet. She hears it. Her head lifts fast, her back going straight, but she doesn’t rise. She doesn’t run.
Smart girl.
She’s sitting in a silk nightdress, the same shade as the one from the wedding night. Her legs are curled to one side, her arms folded tightly around her middle like she’s trying to hold herself still. Her hair is down now, falling soft over her shoulders. She looks too delicate for the weight she’s carrying.
I close the door behind me. The click is deliberate. Final.
Her eyes follow me as I move.
I circle the bed slowly, saying nothing. I let my steps echo in the thick quiet. I want her to feel the tension again. I want her to remember that her place in this house is not negotiable. But I also want her to understand something else.
I let the silence drag, enjoying her discomfort. “You know, there were men at that party who’d have paid to see what you did out there. Hell, I might start selling tickets next time.”
She shifts, unsure if I’m serious.
I crouch by the bed, crowding her space. “You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even check if anyone was watching. That’s my kind of loyalty.”
She starts to speak. I raise a finger, silencing her with a smirk. “Don’t ruin it by apologizing.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, then lean in. My hand finds her waist. She gasps softly, breath catching against her throat.
“You’re shaking,” I say. “But you’re not moving.”
“I don’t know what you want,” she whispers.
“You do.”
My fingers press in gently, coaxing her to turn toward me. She does, slow and cautious. Her knees now rest on either side of my thighs. Her robe slips slightly, baring one shoulder. Her skin is warm.
“No one touches what’s mine,” I say. “And tonight, you proved you’re mine completely, sweetheart.”
Her mouth trembles.
“Say it,” I command.
She hesitates. Her hands tighten around the fabric at her hips.
I grip her waist harder. “Say it.”
She swallows, voice barely audible. “I’m yours.”
