Page 24 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

Eventually, I push myself to stand.

I need to move. I need to do something with my hands, with my body, before the helplessness curdles into panic. The en suite is still warm from earlier, the faint scent of lavender and steam clinging to the marble tile. The faucet squeaks slightly when I turn it. The tub fills quickly.

I undress slowly, my fingers hesitant, as if the act might invite someone to burst in. When no one does, I step into the bath and sink beneath the water, letting the heat climb my body until it stings my skin in the most welcome way.

It burns away the numbness.

The bruises on my wrists still throb, more tender now than raw. I run my fingers over them absently. The red has faded into purple, then yellow in places. They almost look old now. Like the pain belonged to someone else.

I stay in the bath until my skin wrinkles, until the heat turns tepid. When I climb out, I wrap myself in the thick robe left folded by the vanity and towel-dry my hair without lookingin the mirror. I’m not ready to face the girl who looks back at me yet.

When I step out of the bathroom, it takes me a moment to realize something is wrong.

Someone is in the room.

A man, tall and broad-shouldered, stands near the window with his back to me. His coat is charcoal gray and fitted perfectly, every movement sleek and intentional. He turns before I can say anything, and I freeze.

This isn’t Kion.

He faces me with calm, unreadable eyes and a face cut from sharp edges. There’s nothing gentle in his posture, nothing warm in his presence. He looks like he belongs in a boardroom or a battlefield. Either would suit him.

“Good,” he says, as if we’re picking up a conversation we never started. “You’re awake.”

My hand tightens around the robe’s belt instinctively. “Who the hell are you?”

He steps away from the window, slow and deliberate, as though too much motion might shatter the illusion of civility he’s wearing. “Name’s Yuri. I work with Kion. You could call me his right hand, or his shadow. Depends who’s asking.”

I don’t answer. I don’t want to ask anything, because I want him gone.

He takes in the room like he owns it. His gaze drifts across the untouched lunch tray, the folded clothes left on the foot of the bed, then back to me.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “Cooperative. That’s good, but I wanted to come say a few words before that changes.”

I stiffen. “Changes?”

His mouth twitches—something too slight to be a smile. “We’ve been patient. Kion, more than anyone. He’s been generous with you.”

“I didn’t ask him to be generous.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you benefited from it anyway.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”

Yuri clasps his hands behind his back, posture military-straight. “To offer you advice. Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“Advice.”

“Do as you’re told.”

The words are quiet, but they cut like glass. I stay where I am, the soft carpet warm under my feet, the robe now suddenly too thin. My heart beats faster, but I keep my face still.

“And if I don’t?” I ask.

His gaze sharpens, the civility slipping for just a second. “Then you don’t have to worry about Kion.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He steps closer, slowly, not enough to invade, but enough to press weight behind the words. “He wants you safe. He wants you… alive. That means he’s been lenient. That leniency only stretches so far.”