Page 60 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
When we reach the estate, Yuri parks in front of the doors. I don’t wait for anyone else. I open the door and lift her out of the car.
She doesn’t protest. Her arms go around my neck, and her head rests against my shoulder like she’s given up trying to be strong for now.
Inside, the staff see the blood on my hands, the bruises on my face, and they scatter. Good. Let them remember what happens to anyone who threatens a Sharov. I carry her through the house like a trophy, a promise, a warning.
In the en suite, I lower her to the bathroom stool gently and turn on the tap. Hot water rushes into the tub. Steam begins to rise.
She watches with a dazed sort of calm. Like she’s not quite sure she’s safe yet.
“I can do this,” she murmurs as I reach for the buttons of her coat.
“I know you can,” I say, undoing them anyway.
“I mean it. I’m not broken.”
“I know.” Now isn’t the time for jokes, so I keep quiet.
She looks up at me. “But I need help tonight.”
I nod. “I’m here.”
I help her out of the coat, then the rest of her clothes. I don’t rush. Don’t leer. I don’t want anything from her except tosee her whole again. She shivers when I peel off her shirt, and I pause when I see the bruise blooming over her side.
My hands curl into fists. “I’m going to make sure no one ever gets close to you again,” I promise, low and rough.
“I believe you,” she whispers.
I help her into the bath, one hand on her arm, the other keeping her steady. She lowers herself into the water with a soft sigh, body finally relaxing.
I kneel beside the tub and soak the sponge, run it gently over her shoulders. She leans forward so I can reach her back.
Her voice is barely audible.
“Will you… stay with me?”
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
I reach for the wide-toothed comb on the counter. She turns slowly, wet hair curling over her collarbones.
I start at the ends. Work my way up. She’s always had soft hair. Thick, dark, silky when wet. Each knot I work through makes her flinch a little less.
“I used to do this for my sister,” I murmur. “When she was little. After our parents died, she wouldn’t let anyone else touch her hair.”
Esme tilts her head, surprise in her eyes.
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“She died a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
She’s quiet a moment.
“You’re gentle,” she says softly.
Only with you.The urge to make a joke rises in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
