Page 51 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
She doesn’t look up. “I tried. Got bored.”
“Your solution was to ignore your doctor and park yourself in the most inconvenient part of the house?”
“Wouldn’t call it inconvenient,” she says. “It’s warm, and the fire’s nice.”
She finally glances over. There’s something cheeky in her smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You gonna carry me back?”
I walk toward her slowly, hook an arm around her waist. “If I have to.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You think I won’t?”
She tilts her head, watching me like she’s measuring the odds. “I’m still sore. You wouldn’t risk it.”
“I’d carry you through fire,” I joke, “and not flinch once. Except maybe because of the third-degree burns.”
Her breath catches. I see the shift in her expression, the flicker of surprise, the pause where she doesn’t know what to do with what I’ve said.
She reaches for my hand instead. Her fingers slip into mine, cold but steady.
“I’m okay,” she says softly. “I just… didn’t want to be alone in that room yet.”
I nod once. I don’t push. I sit down beside her, pulling her in against my side.
She fits there too easily. Like she belongs.
The flames crackle low in the fireplace. The rest of the house stays silent.
Eventually, her head drops to my shoulder. Her breathing evens out. She sleeps like that, curled against me, hoodie sleeve tangled in my hand.
I stay right where I am.
Chapter Fifteen - Esme
I’m not sure what surprises me more: the fact that Talia’s already waiting when I arrive, or that she hasn’t changed at all.
She’s sitting at the far end of the café, elbow propped on the small round table, fingers wrapped around a mug like it’s keeping her alive. Her hair’s in its usual messy bun, curls tumbling free in soft spirals, and she’s still wearing that old navy sweatshirt she used to swear she’d burn. The same wide grin spreads across her face the second she sees me.
“Esme,” she says, dragging out the vowels with mock drama. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
I laugh as I walk over, my boots thudding softly against the tile floor. It’s the first real laugh I’ve let myself have in what feels like forever.
“Talia Rivers,” I reply. “Still the most dramatic person in any room, I see.”
She stands and pulls me into a tight hug, arms wrapping around me like she hasn’t seen me in years. Which, I guess, is almost true. It’s been eight months since I left. Since everything changed.
“Look at you,” she says, pulling back slightly but keeping her hands on my shoulders. “You look like you live in a castle and cry into silk pillowcases.”
I snort. “Try a fortress and don’t cry unless I want people to think I’m weak.”
Her smile falters for half a second. Just a blink. Then she nods, and we sit.
The café is small and tucked into a quiet corner of the city—one of those places that smells like vanilla syrup and burned espresso. The lights are dim, the tables mismatched. The kind ofplace that would’ve been our haunt back in school, back when a caramel latte and a shared slice of cake were all we needed to feel like queens.
She orders another coffee. I stick to tea. Caffeine’s off-limits now.
