Page 12 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

Her brows draw together. “Why not?”

Good question.

I don’t answer. Not because I’m trying to scare her, but because I don’t know. Not exactly. There’s no logic in this. I should have ended it the moment I saw her face. But I didn’t, and now we’re here, both of us stuck in a moment that shouldn’t exist.

She looks away, jaw clenched. I let her.

Let her feel the weight of her own breathing. Let her take me in, and realize I have her life in my hands.

I kind of like the way she watches me.

Chapter Five - Esme

Consciousness drips in slow.

Heavy, murky. Like surfacing through molasses. My head throbs in rhythm with my pulse, and my wrists—God, my wrists ache. A raw, deep throb radiates from where the rope bit into them. I shift slightly, and the chair beneath me scrapes faintly against the concrete.

The room stays dim. A single overhead bulb casts long shadows across the floor, swaying just enough to distort the space. There’s a sound… low, steady. A hum, maybe mechanical, vibrating faintly through the soles of my feet. It isn’t loud, but it’s constant, almost like the room itself is breathing.

I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer, cataloguing everything.

Chair: metal, cold, slightly uneven. Bolted down? No—just heavy.

Walls: too far to reach, but the echo says concrete. Industrial.

Footsteps: distant. Slow. Not close enough to panic over. That man hasn’t returned for me yet.

My breath is shallow, controlled. I’m not calm, but I’m here. I’mthinking.That has to count for something.

When I finally open my eyes, the chair tilts slightly as I straighten. My wrists tug against the rope out of reflex—and something shifts. Not pain. Something else. The rope feels… looser.

My heartbeat slams into my throat.

I freeze. Is it a mistake? Did he forget to retie it after checking?

It could be a test or a trap, but I don’t care. I won’t sit here and wait to be decided on.

I angle my hands, trying not to move my arms too much. The rope is coarse and burns as I twist against it, but there’s give. The knot isn’t tight. Maybe it never was. Maybe I’d been too disoriented to notice before.

My fingers work at it slowly, carefully. Breath held tight in my chest, shoulders still. Sweat gathers at my brow, sliding hot down my temple. My arms tremble from the effort.

A creak echoes from the hallway. I stop breathing.

Silence. Then nothing.

I move again.

Every scrape of rope on skin feels too loud, like I’m shouting into the walls. My lungs squeeze tighter with every breath. This is hope. It hurts more than the fear.

I feel it first. The slip.

A tug, a twist—and my right wrist slides free.

Thank God. Time to go.

I bolt from the chair.

My legs buckle at first, blood rushing too fast, muscles stiff from hours of stillness, but I catch myself against the floor with one trembling hand and push up. My knees scream, but I move anyway. No hesitation. No looking back.