Page 75 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
“But,” he says gently, “there are risks. Stress can aggravate the condition. We’ll need to monitor her closely. No strenuous movement. Strict rest. Emotional regulation is key.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she must avoid anything that elevates her heart rate—physically or emotionally. Her next few weeks are delicate.”
I let out a sharp breath. “You want to keep her bedbound for a month? Good luck.”
His mouth twitches. “I mean it.”
I nod, all business. “She’ll rest. She’ll be so bored she’ll want to strangle me by next week. I’ll risk it.” Then, I sober. “Will it… happen again?”
He doesn’t lie. “It might.”
My chest pulls tight.
“She’s not in immediate danger,” he adds. “Although she will be, if we’re not careful. The same goes for the baby.”
The word hangs between us like a threat.
I nod once.
He gives me a look—hesitant, maybe even sympathetic—but doesn’t speak further. He walks away with the weightless ease of a man who’s already done all he can.
So I stand there, alone, with the silence crawling inside my lungs.
I press a hand to the cold tile wall. My other hand curls at my side, nails digging into my palm. I can’t stop seeing her face. The way she looked at me like she didn’t want to fall apart, but couldn’t help it.
I can’t lose Esme, or our child. I won’t.
A sound rises in my throat, something half a growl and half a curse, but I swallow it.
I stare at the floor. Focus. Breathe.
I breathe through my teeth, through the rage, through the guilt, through the unfamiliar swell of helplessness in my chest.
I’ve protected a thousand people. Run operations in war zones. Burned entire systems to ash. There is nothing I haven’t handled with precision and violence.
Except, I can’t fix what’s happening inside her. I can’t control it, and that truth tears something vital open in me.
I stay there for longer than I should, until the fury dulls just enough to contain again. Until my breath evens. Until the mask slides back into place.
When the door finally opens, when the nurse nods and tells me I can go in… I move like I wasn’t two seconds from collapsing in on myself in the hallway.
I walk in with my best poker face, shoulders squared. If I look like I’ve got it all under control, maybe I’ll believe it too.
For her, I’d play god, saint, or villain—whatever gets her through this.
I swear, as I cross the room to her bedside, that I’ll do whatever it takes—whatever it fucking takes—to make sure she never ends up in a room like this again.
She’s lying on her side when I enter, tucked beneath sterile white sheets, her face pale against the pillow. Her eyes flutter open the moment she senses me.
I cross the room in silence and sit beside her. My hand finds hers instantly. She squeezes, weak but present.
“They said the baby’s okay,” she whispers.
I nod. “Strong heartbeat. They’re watching everything.”
“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I didn’t mean to—”
