Page 69 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
The burn helps. Scalds my throat and reminds me that I’m still here. Still in control. I sip slowly, letting it bite. Letting it tame the part of me that still wants to walk into the street and end something.
Vengeance can wait until dawn. She can’t.
I set the glass down and cross the room.
The hall is dark, but I don’t need light to find her. I know every inch of this place by instinct now. Especially the path back to her.
I step into the bedroom and close the door behind me with a careful click.
She’s asleep. Deep, by the looks of it.
The blankets are a mess, her legs tangled in silk, one arm curled beneath her pillow. Her breathing is slow. Even.
I watch her for a moment. The tension she carried earlier is gone from her face. No fear now. No panic.
It undoes me.
I walk to her side and lower myself down gently, and Esme doesn’t stir. I lean in and brush my lips across her temple. The lightest kiss I’ve ever given.
A whisper of one, really. Something no one would ever believe me capable of.
She sighs in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.
I slip in behind her and pull the blanket up over both of us, then slide an arm around her waist.
She’s warm. Soft. Her back presses into my chest.
I close my eyes, the scent of her hair grounds me. Vanilla. Skin. Sleep. I inhale slowly, hold it, and finally—finally—let the rest of the night go.
For now, she’s safe. So long as I’m breathing, that won’t change.
Chapter Nineteen - Esme
I don’t knock on Kion’s office door often. He keeps it closed more than usual these days, the world inside quieter, darker. Private.
This morning, I knock. Gently. Twice. Then I fold my hands in front of me and wait.
The door opens not long after. He’s in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone. He looks like power incarnate: half-shaved jaw, ink peeking through at the wrist. But his eyes soften when they meet mine.
“Esme,” he says, stepping aside. “You’re braver than most, knocking this early.”
I don’t cross the threshold, just shift my weight from one foot to the other and glance at the floor.
“I want to go out,” I say.
He doesn’t respond right away.
“Not long,” I add. “Just a few hours. There’s a place downtown. They’ve got strollers and baby clothes and all those silly things.” I meet his eyes again. “I just… I want to feel normal. For a little while.”
He studies me. The weight of his gaze is steady. It’s not cold; he’s just considering—like he’s doing risk calculations in his head.
“You’ll have protection.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I figured.”
