Page 58 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

She’s cornered.

Esme’s back is to the far wall, hands up, blood at her temple. Damien Clarke stands in front of her, flanked by two more men. One’s got a bat. The other, a gun. But neither is paying attention to anything but her.

That’s their mistake.

The man with the gun doesn’t have time to aim before I’m on him. One hard twist and the weapon’s mine. I don’t shoot him.

I drive the butt into his temple. Watch him drop. He’s not even worth the bullet, not worth the theatrics or the effort, even to me.

The one with the bat turns—too slow. He swings. I catch it on my forearm—pain snaps white, but I welcome it. It reminds me what I’m here for. Reminds me I’m alive. He isn’t for much longer.

He doesn’t get a second chance. My fist finds his throat, then his ribs, then his jaw. I feel bone snap beneath my knuckles. I leave him on the ground, gasping like a fish out of water.

Then it’s just Clarke. He’s already retreating a step. Smart.

Not smart enough.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he says, voice low, measured.

I see Esme behind him, shaking, pale, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach.

I nearly lose control.

Clarke draws a knife. I watch him grip it wrong. He’s angry. Unfocused.

I’m not.

I take him to the ground in one clean motion. The blade slices through my side, shallow, but I don’t stop. My knee hits his chest. I press the full weight of my body down until I hear ribs give.

His knife skitters across the rooftop.

“Looking for the big bad wolf, Clarke? Here I am. Say hello.”

He claws at my arms. Fails.

“You touched my wife.”

He gurgles something. I don’t care what it is.

“You scared her.”

That’s the part that matters.

I drive my elbow down into his face. Once. Twice. Again. Blood sprays. His body jerks. I don’t stop until I feel nothing beneath me but shattered bone and ruin.

Then I stand.

Esme hasn’t moved. She’s still against the wall, eyes wide, hands trembling.

She’s safe, but only just.

She tries to speak, but her breath hitches.

“Did he touch you?” I ask, voice rough.

She shakes her head. “He cornered me. Said—said I caused Aaron’s death.”

I cup her face, gently. Her skin is cold. Her eyes are full of fear and something else—something sharp and cracking.