Page 71 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I set it down, walk over, and slip my hand into his.
He squeezes once.
It’s not much, just a small squeeze, but it’s enough to make my chest ache with something quiet and unexpected. His grip is warm, grounded. Like I’m tethered again. Like all the fear from weeks ago has finally started to thaw under something gentler.
“Let me know if you see anything you want,” he says, his voice low, near my ear.
“I already did.”
He arches a brow.
I smile, tip my head toward the velvet star mobile now tucked neatly into one of the store bags. “That one.”
He just nods, like that’s already been handled.
Knowing him—it has.
I turn to speak with one of the clerks about bassinets, asking half out of genuine curiosity and half just to hear someone talk about something normal. Something simple. It feels good to ask questions that don’t involve bulletproof glass or security clearance. The woman’s kind, warm in that practiced retail way, and she’s more than happy to explain features I don’t understand.
As I lean closer to get a better look at a crib’s folding mechanism, something shifts behind me.
A rustle. A snap of tension that pulls my skin tight.
I glance over my shoulder and see that Kion’s gone.
The space where he stood is empty. I look to my left—nothing. My right—nothing.
Then I see it.
Across the store, near the open staircase that curves to the lower level, a child stands far too close to the edge of theupper landing. No more than five, maybe six. One hand on the metal railing, toes perched on the base ledge, leaning forward like they’re watching something below.
The child’s mother is across the room, back turned, talking to another adult.
I barely have time to register what’s happening.
Kion does, and suddenly he’s moving. I’ve never seen him run unless there’s blood in the air—but he does now. He crosses the space in seconds.
He doesn’t grab or yank. He swoops in low, one hand securing the child around the waist, the other steadying the railing. The child gasps—more surprised than scared—as Kion lifts them back from the edge and crouches down beside them.
He says something. “No more acrobatics, kid, or you’ll give the staff gray hair. “He pats their back once. Light, almost gentle.
By then the mother’s noticed; she rushes over in a panic, voice rising with horror and apology. She tries to thank him. Tries to offer explanation, but Kion just rises, gives a small nod, and steps away.
When he turns around, he freezes, because I’m watching him.
He walks back slowly. His face is blank, but his eyes aren’t. There’s something in them I can’t name. Like he’s unsure what I saw—unsure how to explain what just happened.
He reaches me. “You okay?” he asks.
“Areyou?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Saw it before it happened.”
“You’re amazing.”
He frowns slightly. “What?”
I shake my head. There’s no way to explain it in words, so I just look at him.
