Page 47 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

Kion.They’re calling for Kion.

I try to lift my hand. It twitches, barely. One of the maids notices and squeezes my fingers gently.

“You’re safe,” she murmurs. “Just stay with us.”

I want to ask what happened. I want to say I’m fine, that this is nothing. But my mouth won’t cooperate. My body won’t listen.

The edges of my vision pull tight. The floor sways again.

Before I can piece together the rest of the voices or the rush of footsteps echoing down the hall, the darkness takes me under again.

Chapter Fourteen - Kion

The call comes just after midnight.

I’m on my way home, climbing into the car and already rattling off instructions to the driver. Yuri’s name flashes on my phone. I answer before the second ring.

“She collapsed.”

Those two words tear something loose in my chest.

I don’t ask questions, because I’m already moving.

The drive is a blur of headlights and sirens. One of my men tries to speak—something about details, vitals, who called the doctor, but I tune him out. I sit in the back seat with my hands clenched into fists and my jaw locked tight. My heart beats like a war drum in my chest. The taste in my mouth is ash.

She was fine. She was in my house. Safe. Under guard. Under my control.

Yet she collapsed.

I don’t remember stepping out of the car when we reach the hospital. I don’t remember the automatic doors parting or the sharp scent of antiseptic hitting the back of my throat.

I remember the voices trying to stop me.

“Sir, you can’t go in there—”

“Wait, we need to check—”

I shove past them. A nurse tries to block my path. She’s too small. I don’t slow. My shoulder clips hers, hard enough that she stumbles. My men catch her before she hits the floor.

I don’t apologize.

I throw open the door at the end of the corridor, prepared to see her broken—pale, unconscious, tubes in her arms, her skin too still and too quiet.

Instead, I find her awake and sitting upright.

Wrapped in a hospital gown, her face pale but steady, her hair pulled back. There are faint lines of exhaustion around her mouth. Her skin is colorless. Her lips chapped, but sheisalert. Breathing.

The ultrasound machine hums beside her. The doctor stands near the screen, moving a probe slowly over her belly with steady hands.

The moment stops me. Everything else—the noise, the movement, the anger—drains away.

My eyes fixate on the screen, which is flickering black and white. Grainy shapes shifting.

The doctor glances at me, startled but silent. He knows who I am. He says nothing. Just steps back, leaving room.

Esme turns her head, and our eyes meet. She looks like she wants to speak, but can’t.

I cross the room in three strides. My hand moves without thought. I reach for hers. My fingers curl over hers, strong, firm, anchoring.