Page 88 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I giggle, and Kion’s mouth twitches. The edge of a smile, rare and real.
“She’s active tonight,” I murmur.
“She,” he repeats, low.
We haven’t chosen names. We haven’t agreed on anything official, but I’ve caught him saying it when he thinks I’m not listening. She’ll be strong. She’ll be safe. She won’t be touched.
I rest my hand over his.
Another kick.
He doesn’t speak, but I see the change happen—his expression softens, the sharpness in his eyes giving way to something quieter. Less guarded.
He crouches beside the chair slowly, never taking his hand from me.
“She’s strong,” he says.
“She gets it from you.”
“No,” he says. “Not just me.”
He brushes his thumb slowly across my belly, then leans forward and presses his lips to the curve of it. Just once. A quiet, reverent kiss.
I inhale sharply. Not from shock—but from how tender it feels. How deliberate.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says quietly, not lifting his head. “But I want to get it right.”
“You’re doing better than you think.”
He glances up. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He stands then, drawing the blanket higher over my legs, then sits beside me and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder, his arm tight around my back, and his hand returns to my stomach as if he never left it.
“I never pictured this,” I whisper.
“What?”
“You. Me. This baby. A fire. A quiet room.”
His voice is rough when he answers. “Me neither.”
He laughs softly. “If you’d told me a few years ago I’d be here, married with a kid on the way, I’d have laughed you out of the room. Now look at me.”
I grin, and he grins back, and then I kiss him.
***
Later that night, I sense him before I see him.
The lights are dim. A single lamp glows on the bedside table. I’ve already tucked myself beneath the covers, my robe soft against bare skin, the room quiet except for the faint hum of distant rain against the windows.
He lingers in the doorway longer than usual.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cross the room. Just stands there, one hand braced against the frame, watching me with that unreadable expression I’ve only recently begun to understand.
It’s not coldness; it’s restraint. Control so tight it hums beneath his skin.
