Page 37 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

She doesn’t.

I release her waist with deliberate slowness. Her robe slips slightly, exposing the curve of her hip. I don’t fix it. I let her feel the chill in the air. I let her remember my hands there.

Then I step back.

Her fingers tighten around the book in her hands, holding it now like a shield. She swallows once, jaw tense, throat working. She still won’t look away from me, though. That matters.

“Enjoy the books,” I say, voice suddenly teasing. “You’ll have a lot of free time now that you’re my wife, hmm?”

I don’t offer anything more: not an apology, not an explanation. I don’t reassure her. That isn’t what this is.

I nod toward the box at her feet, still half full. “They’re yours now. All of them.”

Her expression flickers, something between confusion and resentment. I see the question in her eyes, but she doesn’t ask it. Good. She’s learning.

Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk to the door.

The silence behind me stays heavy, clinging to the air like smoke. I can feel her watching. She wants to say something. Maybe stop me. Maybe curse me out again. She does neither.

Chapter Eleven - Esme

Several days have passed in silence.

Silence stretched tight between us, heavy with tension neither of us names. Kion hasn’t touched me since our wedding night. His hands remain to himself, his expression unreadable, his mouth closed around whatever thoughts churn behind his eyes. Still, I feel him everywhere.

His gaze follows me constantly.

Across rooms. Through doorways. Over the edge of a glass or the rim of a book. He doesn’t hide it. He watches with the kind of quiet patience that feels more like a trap than curiosity. I know what he’s waiting for. He wants me to break. To fold. To admit that I want him again.

I don’t speak first. I won’t.

As always, my body betrays me.

Every time he looks at me too long, heat curls low in my stomach. At night, I wake tangled in sheets, thighs pressed together, panting like I’ve run miles. I dream of his hands, his mouth, the dark voice he pressed into my ear that night. I hate that I want it again.

The maid informs me there’s an event this evening. Something small and private. A gathering, she calls it. She doesn’t say what kind or who will be there. She just lays the dress across the bed and waits for me to undress. It’s a deep, wine-red satin—soft, fluid, sleeveless. The back dips low. The neckline is tasteful, but every inch of it whispers ownership.

She helps me into it without speaking. Her fingers are deft, practiced, looping the clasp at the nape of my neck, smoothing the fabric down my spine. My hair is pinned loosely.A touch of gloss shines faintly on my lips. I look expensive. Deliberate. Designed.

When I glance in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.

I look like a dutiful wife, but I don’t feel like one. No, I feel like a prisoner dressed for display.

I step into the hallway. Kion waits near the stairwell, already in a dark suit. The collar is sharp. The cuffs are neat. His posture is effortless. I hate that he looks like he belongs in every room he walks into.

He turns when he hears me.

His eyes move slowly over me—head to toe—dragging heat across my skin with no apology. The corner of his mouth lifts, but not into a smile. It is something more satisfied. Something possessive and amused. I don’t flinch, but I feel my spine straighten beneath his gaze.

He extends his arm.

I hesitate for a moment, just long enough to let him know it’s not obedience. Then I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow.

His arm is warm. Solid.

“I wasn’t aware this was a formal event,” I say quietly.

“It isn’t,” he replies. “I want you to look good, though. I must say, you’re ravishing.” He ducks low, laughing against my ear. “I could eat you up.”