Page 50 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
“I used to draw it,” she says. “When I was a kid. I’d sketch this little house with a dog out front, two parents, a kid at the kitchen table. I imagined them laughing. Eating together. That was my version of luxury. Not money. Not clothes. Just… love. People who actually wanted to be around each other.”
I don’t interrupt. My grip tightens slightly on the door handle, but I keep my tone even. “You didn’t have that?”
She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Not even close. My parents barely tolerated each other. I don’t remember either of them ever hugging me, and when they finally left, it was like… I disappeared. The orphanage wasn’t much better. You learned real quick how to stay quiet. How to make yourself small so you didn’t bother anyone.”
We slow at the gate. The guards wave us through without question. The house looms ahead, lit warm and gold against the night, but Esme looks like she’s a thousand miles from it.
“I used to think if I just worked hard enough, did everything right, I could build the opposite of what I grew up with. I wanted to be the kind of mom who left notes in lunchboxes, who made pancakes on Sundays, who didn’t make her kid wonder if they were a burden.”
Her hands are clenched in her lap now.
“What if I can’t do it?” she says. “What if all I end up doing is screwing them up the same way? What if I want it so badly I end up ruining it?”
We park. Kill the engine. I turn to her fully.
“Look at me, Esme. You’re not your parents, and you’re sure as hell not alone. Our kid’s going to grow up knowing exactly who they belong to. They’ll never want for anything. I’ll make sure of it.”
Her eyes flick to mine, hesitant.
“Our kid,” I say, “will grow up in a house built like a fortress. They’ll eat better than most diplomats. Wear tailored clothes. They’ll be guarded, protected, educated, and more than that, they’ll be wanted.”
I reach over to cover her hand with mine, dip low to brush my lips across her ear.
“They’ll have you,” I say. “And they’ll have me. They’ll be Sharov blood. That means royalty, Esme. That means safety. It means every inch of this fucked-up empire bows before them.”
Her bottom lip trembles, but she bites it hard.
I lean in just a little closer. My voice drops. “No one touches what’s mine. That includes you. That includes them. I don’t care what it takes. I’ll carve out a world where they never feel what you felt growing up.”
She finally nods.
It’s small. But it’s enough.
***
Back at the house, Yuri’s already waiting in the front hall.
“Get the prescription filled,” I tell him. “Use our guy. I want it delivered direct, no pharmacy.”
Yuri nods without question. “Understood.”
He disappears, as usual.
Esme leans against the banister, one hand still resting low on her stomach. She looks tired. Not fragile, but stretched thin. She kicks off her shoes and starts toward the stairs.
“Upstairs, now,” I say—no room for argument. “Doctor’s orders, and mine. Don’t make me come carry you.”
She doesn’t argue. Just nods, slow and quiet, and disappears up the staircase.
I wait until I hear the door shut before I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding since the ER.
***
She lasts twenty minutes.
I find her in the living room, curled up on the oversized armchair, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she’s trying to disappear into herself. She’s thumbing through a book, eyes unfocused.
I lean in the doorway, arms folded casually, lazy expression on my face. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
