Page 98 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Then he speaks. “You were going to say something,” he murmurs.
I glance at him, startled.
He looks down, thumb brushing across the back of my hand. “Before,” he says. “Before you collapsed. You walked into my study like you had something to tell me.”
My heart stirs, remembering it. The softness I carried, the fear. The way I hesitated in the doorway, wanting to say something I hadn’t let myself feel fully until that moment.
I nod once, lips parting, but he continues before I can answer. “So was I.”
I meet his eyes again.
There’s something raw in them now. He shifts closer, like he can’t bear the distance between us.
“Say it,” I breathe.
He lifts his hand, slow and deliberate, and touches my face. Not with hunger, not with desperation—just with care. His thumb skims the corner of my mouth. His fingers trace my jaw, then slide behind my ear. It’s the softest he’s ever touched me.
“I love you.”
The words land quietly. My breath hitches. My chest tightens.
A laugh escapes me, wet and shaky, more exhale than sound. My eyes blur with tears again, but this time they’re different. Lighter. Realer.
“I love you too.”
I don’t say it because I’m afraid.
I don’t say it because I think it’ll keep me safe.
I say it because I mean it.
He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine, and for a while we stay like that, breathing the same breath.
Liliana shifts in her sleep, her fingers curling tighter.
Kion’s arm wraps around me. Mine curls around him.
His lips find mine before I even realize he’s moved.
It’s not a desperate kiss. There’s no urgency in it. Just warmth. Care. Like he’s sealing the words we’ve just spoken with something truer than sound. His hand cradles the side of my face, his mouth moving slowly against mine. I lean into it without hesitation, heart full and chest tight in the best possible way.
When we pull back, he doesn’t let go. He presses a soft kiss to my cheek, then my brow, and finally rests his foreheadagainst mine again. I smile through the tears I haven’t wiped away.
“I didn’t think I’d get to have this,” I whisper.
He strokes his thumb along my cheek. “You have it now.”
A quiet knock comes at the door, and the spell doesn’t break—but it shifts. The doctor steps in, clipboard tucked under one arm, expression politely neutral. He pauses when he sees us, then clears his throat.
“I won’t keep you long,” he says. “Vitals are looking good, Esme. The stitches look clean. You’re healing well.”
“Good,” I reply, my voice still hoarse.
He glances at me with gentle concern. “We can offer something stronger for the pain if the oral meds aren’t cutting it.”
I shake my head before he finishes. “No. Thank you. I’ve got everything I need.”
He raises a brow. “Are you sure?”
