Page 23 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Lidia crosses the room, places a towel in a drawer, and smooths her hands over the fabric. “It’s survival. That’s what this is. You saw something you were never meant to see. The punishment for that is death. He could have followed tradition.”
I grip the edge of the mattress. “So instead he decided I’d look better in silk?”
There’s a flicker of something—sympathy, maybe, or understanding—but it vanishes quickly. “He claimed you.”
“I’m not a thing to be claimed.”
“In this world, you are,” she says. “We all are, in the end.”
I close my eyes. “Why would he do this?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “He must like you a great deal.”
I open my eyes again. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’ve worked in this house for more than twenty years,” she says. “I’ve seen him make choices out of anger, out of power, out of necessity. Never once have I seen him act out of affection. Until now.”
My mouth goes dry. “Affection? That’s what you’re calling this?”
“I’m telling you what I see,” she says simply.
I feel something rising in me, something hot and unfamiliar. Not just fear. Not just rage. Helplessness.
“So what happens now?” I ask. “I stay here? You all keep pretending this is normal while I eat off silver and try on dresses for a wedding I didn’t agree to?”
“If you’re smart,” she says, “you’ll adapt. You’ll use it.”
“Use it?”
“This protection. This space you’ve been given. He has made a public claim. That comes with power, and with safety.”
“And if I don’t want it?”
She folds the final towel. “Then I suggest you don’t test how far that safety stretches.”
I look down at my lap. My fingers have curled into the silk at my thighs, knuckles white, the fabric bunching under my nails.
“He said nothing to me,” I whisper. “Not about this.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Lidia says. “He will, in time.”
I force myself to meet her gaze. “If I say no?”
She hesitates. “Then I truly hope he likes you more than he has liked anyone else.”
She turns then, quiet as ever, and leaves the room. The door clicks shut behind her.
I don’t move for a long time.
I stare at my hands, at the trembling of my fingers, at the soft silk bunched between them. I sit in this golden cage with its velvet cushions and glass mirrors, and I feel more trapped than I ever did in the basement.
“He must like you a lot.”
I don’t want him to, but I already know that in this world, what I want doesn’t matter.
I sit on the bed for a long time after Lidia leaves.
The room has gone quiet again, but now the silence feels tighter. I feel like I’m just counting each second until something shifts. The silk robe they gave me feels too soft against my skin, the carpet too plush beneath my feet, and it all scratches against my nerves like wool.
