Page 28 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I look at her again. She has not moved. Her hands are now clasped before her, fingers twined tightly enough to turn theknuckles white. Her shoulders remain square. Her breathing is shallow but even.
I offer my arm, and Esme takes it.
We turn together, facing the aisle. Every eye in the room follows us.
Each step forward is deliberate. She keeps pace, but tension rides in her posture. Her arm is stiff against mine. Her fingers flex slightly, restless, uncertain. She is performing now, and she knows it. So do I.
Halfway down the aisle, I lean toward her. My mouth is near her ear, my voice low and unhurried.
“Smile, wife. You’re putting on a show for men who’d kill to see me bleed. Give them nothing but envy.”
She doesn’t respond. Then, slowly, her lips lift—not in joy, not in peace, but something else. A sharp, brittle thing that carries just enough curve to pass as compliance. Her eyes remain cold.
It is the perfect answer.
I return the smile. Mine is real. Calculated. Dangerous.
We move silently, Esme clinging to my arm, and go towards the car waiting for us. I open the door and usher her in, and Esme doesn’t protest.
The car door shuts behind her with a weighty click, sealing the quiet in with us.
The engine hums, low and steady beneath our feet. The partition is already up. No driver to see. No audience. Just the two of us and the silence that’s grown sharper by the second. It isn’t comfortable. It isn’t peaceful. It’s like holding a match over dry paper, waiting for the moment it ignites.
Esme sits with her hands folded tightly in her lap, the silk of her dress rippling softly as the fabric shifts. She doesn’t fidget,but her fingers tremble just slightly. She probably thinks I won’t notice. I do.
I notice everything.
She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed out the window, though there’s nothing to see but the dark stretch of road winding toward the estate. The city lights have long since faded. Trees blur past in streaks of gray and shadow.
I don’t speak. Neither does she, but the quiet is a living thing between us. I can feel her breathing.
She’s waiting for something. A threat. A command. Maybe even a reassurance, though she’d never admit to wanting one. Her shoulders are still held high, back perfectly straight. She has pride, even now. Especially now. Dangerous, and exactly why she’s still alive.
I let the silence hold until the car turns through the gates.
The gravel drive crunches beneath the tires. The house looms ahead, dark windows staring out like watchful eyes. The porch lights are on. Everything else is in shadow.
When the car stops, I step out first.
The air is cooler here, cleaner. The breeze cuts through the heat still trapped in my collar. I round the car and open her door.
She steps out without waiting for my hand. Of course she does.
She moves like she did in the chapel: graceful, stubborn, deliberate. Her chin lifted, her steps measured, her eyes scanning every corner of the estate as if cataloging potential exits. The silk trails behind her, whispering along the ground.
I let her take three steps ahead before I say anything. Then I spin to take her hand, beaming. “The night is far from over.”
She halts. Not abruptly, but with that same careful poise she’s wielded since the ceremony began. Then she turns her head, just enough to glance at me from over her shoulder.
Her voice is low. “Of course it isn’t.”
I step closer.
I should say something else. I should tell her what comes next, what the Bratva expects of a marriage sealed in blood and law. I should remind her that her survival still depends on compliance.
Instead, I study her expression. There is fear there, but it’s buried deep beneath her rage. And something sharper. A challenge.
She’s daring me to use the power I’ve taken. Daring me to prove what kind of man I really am.
