Page 99 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Kion’s hand tightens gently around mine. I glance at Liliana sleeping in the bassinet beside me and smile.
“I’m sure,” I say. “I have my daughter and my husband. That’s all I need.”
The doctor nods, scribbles something down, and lets himself out quietly.
Kion shifts closer again and places a kiss on my temple. “Stubborn.”
“You wouldn’t love me otherwise.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “True.”
***
Two days pass in a slow blur.
The nurses come in every few hours, taking vitals, checking stitches, giving instructions. I barely sleep, but I don’t care. Every time Liliana opens her eyes or stretches her tiny fingers, I forget I’m sore or exhausted. Kion never leaves my side. Not once. He takes every question seriously, every update like a mission briefing. When the nurse shows him how to swaddle, he listens with the intensity of a man learning how to disarm a bomb.
On the morning of our discharge, they hand us a thick packet of paperwork—referrals for follow-up appointments, pediatric specialists, scans and developmental checks. Premature but healthy, they say. Nothing concerning, but they want to keep a close eye on her progress.
I hold Liliana close as Kion pushes my wheelchair through the halls. Liliana is bundled in soft white with a little knitted cap that keeps slipping sideways. Her eyes blink lazily against the sunlight, already suspicious of the world she’s just joined.
Yuri is parked at the curb in one of Kion’s quieter cars—dark, sleek, nothing flashy. He gets out the moment he sees us, opening the door without a word. His eyes flick to the bundle in my arms, then to Kion, then back again.
He doesn’t smile, not really. But there’s something softer in his face than usual.
“She’s small,” he says.
“Small but loud,” Kion replies. “Give her a week. She’ll be running the place.”
I slide into the backseat with Liliana, holding her carefully as Kion climbs in beside me. Yuri doesn’t speak again. He just shuts the door and pulls away from the curb.
The drive is quiet.
Liliana sleeps soundly, one fist against her cheek. I keep my gaze on her the entire time, adjusting the blanket, brushing a thumb gently down the side of her face.
Kion’s arm rests behind me on the seat. He doesn’t speak either. He just watches.
Watches me. Watches her.
I feel his fingers stroke the back of my neck once. Then twice.
When we arrive, the house greets us in silence.
There are no guards hovering at the door, and no footsteps pacing in other rooms.
Kion lifts Liliana from my arms before I can protest, cradling her close as he guides me up the stairs with one hand pressed to the small of my back. I lean into his touch without thinking.
Every step is slower than usual. My body’s still sore, fragile in ways I don’t quite recognize, but I’m too full to care. My arms ache only because they’re empty now. Kion carries her gently, more carefully than I’ve ever seen him move. His voice, when he speaks to her, is low and quiet. Private.
“You’re home now, little one.”
He pushes open the bedroom door, and I pause in the threshold. The nursery is visible through the archway beyond our bed, bathed in soft golden light. I haven’t been in there since it was finished, and now, standing here, I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
It’s beautiful.
White walls, pale wood furniture. Soft clouds painted above the cot, and pale curtains tied back to reveal warm yellow lamps and a rocking chair tucked in the corner. The bassinet is already in place beside our bed, its frame delicate but strong.
He did this. Finished it in time. Somehow, in the madness of everything, he made it ready.
