Page 40 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

“Well,” he drawls, eyes glinting with amusement, “that’s one way to make an impression at your first party.”

I stare at him, breathless, still clutching my arms to my chest.

He glances at Aaron’s sprawled body. “Messy form, but excellent follow-through. Remind me not to leave my good glassware unattended next time.”

My mouth opens, then closes again. Words won’t come.

He tilts his head slightly. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t—” My voice breaks. I force the words out again. “I don’t know.”

Kion’s smirk deepens. He glances at the body, then back at me. “Does it matter?”

I shake my head. I don’t know if I’m agreeing or just trying to stay upright.

He studies me closely. “You’re shaking.”

“I hit him,” I whisper.

“You did,” he says. “You’ll do it again, if you need to.”

There is no judgment in his voice, just a glimmer of approval.

I meet his gaze again. For a moment, I feel something shift between us, something like recognition.

He steps closer, leans in, and speaks softly at my ear. “You’re a fitting wife for me, after all.”

Chapter Twelve - Kion

I lean against the wall inside the corridor, half in shadow, the edge of the garden visible through the open archway. A drink rests in my hand, the glass cool against my fingers. The music from the main hall is distant now, a low hum beneath the pulse of night. The air outside is still.

Esme moves quietly down the garden path.

She thinks she’s alone.

Her shoulders rise and fall with the rhythm of restraint. She’s not running. But she is retreating. I watch the curve of her back as she steps beneath the lantern light, the wine-red satin of her dress hugging her hips like it was sewn onto her skin. Her hair falls in soft curls down her spine. Her posture is tense. Controlled.

She doesn’t see him yet.

I do.

Aaron Clarke moves like a man who believes he has a right to be in every room. He always has. His suit is too neat. His smile too sharp. He watches her walk and waits until she is far enough from the others, then follows.

I sip my drink.

Clarke is not subtle.

His steps are smooth, confident, just loud enough to let her hear him. He plays the part well—charming, effortless, dangerous in the way people underestimate until it’s too late. He’s not loyal to me. He’s not even loyal to the men who think they have use for him. He’s an opportunist. The worst kind.

He thinks Esme is a weakness. That’s his first mistake.

He reaches her. I can’t hear every word, but I hear enough. He flatters her. He compliments the dress. He uses hername like it’s an invitation. She shifts away, just slightly, her voice polite but edged. I see the moment he ignores it.

He steps closer, and her body tenses.

He touches her arm, and I have to resist every urge to rip his from its socket.

I want to see what she’ll do. If she’ll step back or lean in. If she’ll use the moment to her advantage. If she’ll turn to him and give away something that belongs to me. I watch the set of her shoulders, the tremble in her breath, the way she glances toward the house.