Page 45 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
The sound of footsteps down the corridor makes me tense, then feel immediately ashamed. I tell myself it’s fear. Of course it is. What else could it be? There’s a hollow weight in my chest, the kind that builds when someone you don’t want to miss starts to matter. I hate that. I hate that he is inside my thoughts like this. That I crave the danger of his gaze more than the safety of his absence.
Pathetic.
I try to distract myself.
The maids come and go, quiet as ever. They clean the rooms, change the linens, bring meals I barely touch. Breakfast is a blur. Lunch, untouched. Dinner, cold by the time I remember it’s there. The routine is always the same. Their faces don’t change. Their eyes don’t linger. I know they’re watching. Ican feel it in the way they pause in the doorway, waiting for me to speak first.
I flip through one of the books Kion gave me. It’s an edition I once borrowed from my hometown’s library—same cover, same weight, even the same crease on the back page. I want to lose myself in it. I want to focus on anything other than the ache in my body, the silence in the hall, and the memory of Kion’s voice when he told me I was his.
The words blur.
My head aches. My temples pulse dully. I close the book, rest it beside me, and press my palm to my forehead.
I haven’t eaten properly since yesterday.
The thought crosses my mind that maybe it’s just stress. Or something I ate. I remember the tray of fruit from the night before, how the grapes had tasted off, how my stomach twisted afterward. I brush it off. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.
Still, the nausea lingers.
I spend most of the morning in bed, curled beneath the blanket, eyes shut tight even though I’m not asleep. When the maid returns with a light lunch, I shake my head before she can even set it down.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
Her expression flickers, but she nods and leaves without comment.
The silence returns.
I shift, trying to find comfort in the soft sheets, but my body won’t settle. My skin feels too warm. My stomach churns. The thought of food makes my throat tighten. The headache sharpens, then dulls again.
I breathe in slowly. I stare at the ceiling for a long time.
When I finally sit up, the room spins, just slightly. I close my eyes until it stops, then pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead against them. The silk robe clings to my skin, sticky with sweat.
I whisper to myself, quiet and strained. “You’re fine. It’s just the stress and the pressure.”
It doesn’t help, because my body says otherwise.
***
That evening, I curl into the blankets.
The sheets are soft, freshly changed, scented faintly with something floral. The pillows are fluffed, the lights dimmed. Everything is perfect in that detached, sterile way this place has perfected, but nothing feels right.
My body won’t settle. I shift beneath the covers again and again, folding and unfolding my legs, trying to get comfortable. The silk of my nightdress sticks to my thighs, clinging where I want space, slipping where I want stillness. My skin feels too warm, like the fever of a thought I cannot name.
My face is hot. My arms ache in that dull, empty way that follows tension. My chest is tight—not from pain, but from something heavier. Something deeper. I place a hand there, palm flat, and try to breathe.
It doesn’t help.
There’s a weight low in my belly, not sharp, not sick, just… unfamiliar. A pull. A tension. I don’t know what it is, only that it keeps growing. I curl tighter beneath the blankets, bringing my knees up and pressing both hands against my middle.
The panic doesn’t hit all at once. It builds slowly, like water rising through the floorboards. A quiet, creeping dread. I tell myself it’s nothing. That I’m tired. That I’m spiraling. I haveevery reason to be tired. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept properly. I haven’t spoken to anyone except the maids in days.
The blankets feel too heavy. The room feels too quiet. I press my hands harder against my stomach and close my eyes. I want to be calm. I want to pretend this is normal. But the weight inside me won’t let me.
I breathe in, shallow and slow.
I lie there, curled tight, until the weight in my chest becomes too much to bear. The room is suffocating. The air feels thick, unmoving. Each breath tastes stale, like silk and stillness and memory.
