Page 49 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
It has.
I reach for her hand again, curl my fingers around hers. She lets me.
Outside, one of my men is already waiting by the curb. The car is parked exactly where it should be. The back door opens without a word. Esme moves to climb in, but I pause her with a hand at her elbow.
Her eyes lift to mine.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say.
Her brows furrow. “Take care of what?”
“All of it.”
I help her into the car.
Inside, the world is dim again—quiet, tinted by city lights that slide over the glass. She leans back against the seat, her hand resting lightly at her abdomen. She doesn’t speak. Her eyes drift out the window. I watch her reflection in the glass, the curve of her cheek, the tension in her jaw.
“I didn’t expect this,” she murmurs.
“Well, we didn’t exactly plan for it,” I say.
She doesn’t reply.
The prescription bag crinkles softly as I set it between us. She glances at it, then looks away.
“You didn’t seem surprised,” she says finally.
“I’m not.”
That earns me a look—something unreadable flickering in her expression. “You knew?”
“I had a feeling, that’s all. Bratva instincts are something else.” There’s pride in my voice, and also truth.
She frowns, searching for something in my face. “So what, you’re happy?”
I shrug, letting her see the truth. “Happy’s not the word. Satisfied, maybe. Proud. You’re mine, and now so is this.” My hand moves to her stomach—deliberate, a public claim even in private.
None of those things translate easily into language she wants to hear.
I reach out again, hand sliding over hers, then lower to rest gently over the flat of her stomach. I feel her tense beneath the pressure.
She’s scared of how much she feels. Of what this means. Of how quickly the ground is shifting beneath her.
I can work with that.
I hold her hand the rest of the drive, and neither of us says another word.
As we ride, I rest one hand on Esme’s thigh. She hasn’t said much since we left the hospital. Just nodded when the doctor handed over her discharge papers, then went quiet again once we hit the highway. The papers are folded tight in her lap, but her fingers keep tugging at the edge like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it.
She stares out the window. Head turned, eyes vacant, watching the city lights blur past. I let her have the silence. She needs it, I think. Needs time to settle from the hell of the past twenty-four hours.
Then, right as we turn onto the private drive that leads up to the house, she speaks.
“I always told myself I’d have a real family.”
Her voice is soft. A little too steady.
I glance over. She still hasn’t looked at me.
