Page 83 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Turov scribbles something down.
Ardal stares at her like she’s crazy.
Volkov doesn’t even bother hiding the way his gaze drifts from her face to her stomach to the chair at the head of the table—my chair.
I lean back in my chair, one arm stretched lazily along the backrest, watching her with a slow grin curling at the corner of my mouth. I know I must look smug, because this is exactly who she is.
If I had a cigar, I’d light it just to have something to bite down on while the old guard try to figure out how she just made them irrelevant.
Esme’s sharper than half the men in this room, and she’s only just begun to show it.
Volkov shifts uncomfortably. “You studied this?”
Esme’s gaze snaps to him. Calm. Cold.
“I have a degree in supply chain logistics, and I was doing more with less back when I worked warehouse schedules part time to pay my tuition.”
Volkov looks away.
Smart.
She doesn’t smile or gloat. She simply takes a slow breath, then folds her hands together over her belly again and lets the silence settle.
This time, no one tries to fill it.
I watch her.
The slight lift of her chin. The set of her shoulders. The way she carries not just herself, but the life inside her like it’s a shield and a statement. I have something to protect—and I will. Even if it means schooling captains in their own den.
She turns to me finally.
The scrape of my chair legs against the stone floor echoes through the room.
I don’t say a word to the table. Instead, I walk to her. I stop at her side and glance down, letting my fingers graze her lower back as I speak.
“You’ve all been trying to fix this for weeks,” I say evenly. “She’s been watching for fifteen minutes.”
Yuri lets out a single, low laugh. “She’s not in this business,” I add. “But she could be.”
No one dares object.
I grin, wicked. “She’s not even on payroll. Imagine the damage if she was.”
I look down at her again. Her eyes flick to mine, just for a second. In that second, something passes between us.
She doesn’t flinch when the meeting resumes.
No one questions the rerouted shipment lines. No one argues when Yuri marks the textile yard for immediate clearing or when Arseni sends a silent signal to the logistics team outside. The captains, once barking, now nod with clipped efficiency. Ardal doesn’t look her way again.
Esme moves with quiet precision, picking up the empty tray and retreating to the corner without fanfare. She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t look to me.
She’s no longer a curiosity in soft clothes and pretty manners—she’s the voice that reset the table.
As she passes my chair, I rise without a word. My hand slides around her waist, slow and deliberate. I lean in, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear.
“My queen,” I murmur.
She pauses, breath hitching just slightly.
