Page 48 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
She flinches—just slightly—but she doesn’t pull away.
The gel on her stomach glistens under the fluorescent lights. The screen continues to flicker with soft movements. The shape is small.
My thumb brushes over her knuckles.
The pressure in my chest expands into something deeper. Heavier. The sight of her, upright and steady, the hum of the machine, the quiet sound of a heartbeat I didn’t know I was listening for—it locks something into place.
I stare at that screen as though I can memorize every flicker, as though if I watch long enough, nothing will touch her again. Nothing will take what I see now.
The doctor’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re pregnant.”
The words settle in the air with a finality that grips my spine. For a moment, I hear nothing else. The hum of machines, the low shuffle of movement behind me, the muted rustle of Esme’s gown against the table, all of it fades beneath that single truth.
Pregnant.
Everything narrows.
I stare at the monitor, at the grainy image pulsing with a flicker that holds more weight than a bullet ever has. My hand tightens around hers. I feel the tremor in her fingers. I don’t let go.
She doesn’t pull away.
My heart kicks hard in my chest, not with fear. Not even with surprise. It’s something heavier. A violent kind of pride. Possession, yes—but layered now with something that claws deeper. This isn’t strategy. It isn’t a shield or a power play.
This is her, and something of me inside her.
I glance down at her face. Her lips are parted, brows drawn. Her other hand rests at her stomach, fingers splayed as if she’s trying to hold on to something fragile. I see the panic there, quiet and restrained, but I also see wonder. She looks at the screen like she doesn’t know whether to cry or breathe.
The doctor clears his throat. He speaks again, giving dates, estimates, instructions I don’t register. He sounds too far away. All that matters is the faint beat on the screen and the pale flush in Esme’s cheeks.
She’s carrying my child.
Something sharp and steady roots in my chest. A hunger I don’t name, but one I recognize. It’s not enough to have herbound to me by vows, or even by fear. This changes everything. This cements what I already claimed.
The rest of the appointment passes without incident, but nothing about it feels quiet. Not to me.
The doctor moves methodically, wiping the gel from Esme’s belly and speaking in a tone that tries too hard to sound routine. His words fade into the background, muffled by the pressure building behind my ribs. I know what he’s saying: the baby is early, but healthy. The nausea is normal. She needs rest. Hydration. Low stress.
The nurse hands over a prescription, something to settle her stomach. A small white bag, instructions folded inside. Esme doesn’t reach for it. I take it instead. My fingers are steadier than hers. She still sits upright on the exam table, legs crossed tightly at the ankles, hands resting in her lap. Her spine holds straight, but I can see the weight of it all pressing into her shoulders.
“She can be discharged,” the doctor says. “Vitals are strong. Bloodwork looks good. Bring her back in a week.”
I nod, not speaking.
Esme slides down carefully from the table. She’s back in her own clothes now—jeans, a light sweater, the shawl she had on when she collapsed. Her movements are slow, cautious, but she doesn’t ask for help. That stubborn streak again. I watch her pick up her bag and adjust it over one shoulder. Her hand brushes over her abdomen once—subtle, but not unnoticed.
I hold the door open.
She walks through it without looking at me.
Outside, the hall is quiet. A nurse offers a smile we don’t return. I lead us toward the elevator, keeping close but not touching her. Not here. Not with the sharp edge still curlingunder my skin. Not with the need I’m holding tight behind my teeth.
The elevator doors slide open. We step inside. It’s only the two of us.
She exhales softly, shoulders sinking against the wall.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “How do you feel?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away. Her voice is rough when it comes. “Like everything’s changed.”
