Page 18 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

“She’s fine.”

Adrian huffs a breath. “Fine,” he echoes. “Is that your word now forkidnapped, terrified, and possibly plotting to stab you with a spoon?”

I don’t answer.

He glances sideways at me. “You still planning to marry her?”

“Obviously. Who would pass up someone so beautiful?” I offer him a quick grin, which he doesn’t return.

He nods once. “That sounds like you. Always ready to pursue the next pretty thing.”

“Is that what you think of me?” I joke.

I let the silence stretch again, then push off the doorframe and start toward her.

She sits up straighter.

I don’t know if it’s fear that makes her spine lock, or instinct, but I see the movement ripple through her shoulders. Still quiet. Still watching.

Adrian stays where he is. His presence is like the edge of a blade resting against my shoulder—always ready, always sharp, but not dangerous until it needs to be.

I stop in front of Esme, watching the way her fingers twitch where they rest against her leg. She’s bracing for something.

“Eat,” I say, nodding toward the tray I brought earlier, still untouched on the side table. “Then we’ll talk.”

She doesn’t ask what about, nor does she reach for the tray.

Her eyes flick toward it, once, then back to me. Her jaw stays tight, shoulders drawn inward, like if she holds herself still enough she might disappear. I can see the hesitation written all over her face. Hunger gnaws at her—her body wants it—but pride keeps her frozen.

I nod to the food again, more pointedly this time. “Eat.”

She doesn’t move.

I step closer, voice low. “You’re not proving anything by starving yourself. You need to stay alive, and that means eating.”

She exhales, sharp through her nose, and finally—slowly—reaches for the tray.

Her fingers shake slightly when she picks up the sandwich. She doesn’t meet my gaze as she takes a bite, chewing stiffly, like she expects the bread to turn to ash in her mouth. I don’t speak while she eats. I just watch.

She finishes half of it, then the fruit. The water goes down last, slower, more cautious. Every movement is small and deliberate. She eats like she thinks it’s a test, like she’s trying to read the rules before she breaks one.

When she finally sets the tray aside, I speak again. “I’m moving you upstairs.”

She stiffens. Her gaze snaps to mine, suspicious. “Why?”

“This room is temporary. It was made for containment, not comfort.”

She gives a short, bitter laugh. “That much was obvious.”

“There’s a real bedroom prepared. A bed. A window. You’ll sleep there tonight.”

Her mouth opens, a retort on her tongue, but I cut her off.

“There won’t be any bindings,” I say. “No rope. No locks on the door. Although if you try to escape again, that changes.”

She stares at me, weighing the offer, the risk. I see the flicker of calculation in her eyes. She wants out of this room. She wants out of the basement. That much is clear.

Still, she doesn’t say yes right away. “You expect me to trust you?” she asks.