Page 17 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
“Break your own rules,” I say, “and I promise, I’ll burn every last one of you down with the house you built. I’m not bluffing—don’t bet your lives that I am.”
That lands hard.
None of them speak after that. They sit in silence, swallowing their protest, their shame, their fear of being the first to break the rules they love to enforce.
I turn and walk out before they can recover. Before their pride claws its way to the surface. The door clicks shut behind me, and I leave them behind in smoke and silence.
The decision is made.
***
The old house is quieter now, when I get home.
The night has settled thick around the building, muting the buzz of the city outside. Rain clings to the windows in streaks, catching the light in thin silver threads. Inside, the air carries the low hum of the ventilation system and the faint scent of smoke from a cigar left burning too long earlier in the evening.
I lean against the doorframe, arms folded across my chest.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
Esme sits curled in the same chair, though she’s shifted since I last saw her. Her body no longer fights the rope. Her shoulders are hunched, legs pulled tight, head bowed like she’s conserving whatever strength she has left. Her hair falls forward in damp strands, dark against the pale curve of her cheek.
Then her head lifts.
Her eyes find mine immediately, as if she’s been waiting. The fear is still there—that raw, primal edge that doesn’t fade overnight—but something else lingers behind it now. Something harder to name.
Recognition. Curiosity. Maybe even a hint of defiance.
I don’t speak. I let her look. Let her draw her own conclusions about why I’ve returned, what I want now. Let her look at me, drink me in, and decide what she wants.
Her lips part slightly, like she wants to ask something, but she doesn’t. She stays quiet.
Smart.
I watch her from across the room, and I try—again—to make sense of it. Of her. Of why, when I’ve ended people for less, I’m standing here guarding this stranger like she belongs to me.
She doesn’t look like she belongs to anything I’ve built.
She looks like something soft and unfinished that the world forgot to harden. That contrast, her softness against the rough backdrop of this life, unsettles me more than I want to admit.
I tell myself this is strategic.
That marrying her solves two problems at once.
It gives her protection she wouldn’t otherwise have, and it puts a full stop to the marriage Yuri’s been pushing between me and his too-perfect daughter. That alliance has always been about optics; old money wants to be relevant again. Sokolov’s girl wouldn’t survive a week in my world. Esme might.
Marrying her keeps the council quiet.
It keeps Yuri out of my house, and it keeps her alive. I can live with that.
Behind me, footsteps echo. I don’t have to look to know who it is.
Adrian moves through the hallway like always, silent, sharp, and far too observant for his own good. He steps up beside me, hands in the pockets of his long coat, dark hair still damp from the rain.
He follows my gaze into the room, then leans in slightly. “You planning on feeding her, or just watching her until she starves?”
“She’s not starving.”
“She looks like a stray cat someone forgot to bring inside.”
