Page 26 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

My inner circle lines the front row—Adrian, Yuri, a few others I trust not to blink if this turns ugly. No one congratulates me. They wouldn’t dare.

The priest shifts at the altar.

He’s a quiet man, old and tired, the kind who performs ceremonies like this with as little feeling as possible. His fingers flip through the worn pages of the service book, and I can tell he’s annoyed. Impatient. He’s used to weddings with flowers and music, not guards at every door and a woman in silk standing at gunpoint.

I don’t care about the priest.

My eyes are locked on the double doors.

They haven’t opened yet, but I can feel her on the other side, waiting for us to begin.

The doors creak open.

Every head turns. The room shifts, just slightly—an intake of breath, a flicker of posture, nothing loud or obvious. Still, I feel it ripple through the crowd. They were expecting something else. They were expecting fear. Maybe tears. Maybe resistance.

What they get is a woman wrapped in silver silk, pale as ash, but upright.

Esme steps into the room like she’s walking toward a sentence. Her shoulders are drawn back, not with pride, but something more brittle; defiance holding its breath. The gown clings to her, delicate and shimmering, the color making her look more ghost than bride. But it’s her face that makes the room go still.

She looks like she might collapse under the weight of all of it, but she doesn’t.

Her jaw is set. Her eyes scan the pews, flitting from shadowed face to shadowed face, searching for something. An escape route. A sign of sympathy. Anything.

She finds nothing, and still, she walks.

Each step clicks softly against the stone floor. Her hair has been pinned back, loose curls framing her face, but not hiding it. She doesn’t lower her eyes. She doesn’t cower. That stubborn line of her spine only hardens the closer she gets.

It sharpens something in me. Interest. Hunger. Possession.

When she finally reaches me, the silence deepens. The priest stills. I don’t wait for his nod or cue. This isn’t his moment.

I reach out and grip her chin. I tighten my grip, just enough to remind her who’s in charge. “Don’t make a scene, Esme. Smile for your audience.”

Her breath catches. I tilt her face up, not roughly, but with purpose. Her skin is cool under my palm. Her pulse stutters beneath it.

Our eyes lock.

“You will take my name,” I say, loud enough for the room to hear, but meant only for her. “You will be mine in every sense.”

Her lips part, just slightly. There’s a sound half formed. Maybe a protest, maybe a question, but I tighten my grip, just enough.

Her mouth closes. Her lips press into a line. No sound comes. No objection.

That’s all I need, because her silence is enough.

I lower my hand slowly, watching every twitch of her face, every flinch she tries not to let show. Her chin lifts by instinct, her pride scraping against instinct.

“Do you understand what this means?” I murmur low, just for her.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then, quiet as a breath, she says, “You’re not saving me. You’re owning me.”

“Anyone in this room thinks they can touch what’s mine, they can try their luck. I’ll bury the first and make the rest watch.”

She blinks, slowly. “What happens if I say no?”

My gaze doesn’t waver, but my hands trail down to her neck, touch lingering. “You won’t.”

“Because I’ll die otherwise?”