Page 63 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

“Kion—”

He holds up a hand, not to stop me—just to keep going.

“My brother was older. Stronger. He kept me alive. Taught me where to hide, how to breathe without making noise.” A pause. “The day he died, I was fourteen. He tried to take a beating meant for me. Took it straight to the chest. Didn’t get up after.”

I feel something twist deep in my stomach.

“I killed the man who did it,” he says. “First time I ever held a gun. My hands shook so bad I dropped it twice, but I got the shot off. That was enough.”

I step closer. Place my palm flat against his chest, just above his heart. It’s beating steady beneath my skin.

“You were still a child,” I whisper.

“There are no children where I come from. Only survivors.”

The cigarette burns down to the filter. He stubs it out in the tray beside him but doesn’t move otherwise. He’s too still. Too quiet.

I slide into the chair beside him and take his hand, and he looks at it like he’s not sure he deserves it.

“You scare me sometimes,” I admit. “When you fight, when you lose yourself in it… you look like someone else. Like something built for war.”

He nods once. Doesn’t deny it.

“But tonight, when I thought I was going to die… all I could think was you’ll come for me. Not someone. Not help. You.”

His jaw flexes. He looks down at our joined hands.

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh, but too bitter. “Love isn’t exactly in the Bratva training manual. Protection, violence, pride? Those I can promise. Normality’s overrated, anyway.”

“You don’t have to be normal,” I say. “You just have to stay.”

He looks at me then, really looks, and for the first time, there’s nothing guarded in his eyes.

His hand rests beneath mine, heavy and still. He hasn’t moved since I touched him. Hasn’t spoken since I said stay.

I shift slightly in my seat and lift my hand from his, reaching instead for his jaw. My fingers brush along the coarse edge of his stubble. He stiffens for a second, like touch still surprises him, like he doesn’t trust softness unless it comes with a blade.

I guide his face toward mine. His eyes meet mine again—uncertain, wary, wanting, and then I kiss him.

His lips part under mine, slow and warm. He kisses me back with a hesitation I’ve never felt from him before—like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already fragile. The tension between us hums, not from fear, but from something deeper. Something real.

When I pull back, his eyes are darker, but not cold.

“I’m not promising anything,” I say softly. “Not tonight. Not forever.”

His breath catches.

“But I’m not running.”

That’s all I can give right now, and somehow… it’s enough.

I rise, still holding his hand, and lead him back inside. He follows without a word.

The air inside his bedroom is warm, filled with the faint scent of smoke and fire. The moonlight filters through the curtains, casting soft lines across the floor.

I stop near the bed and turn to face him.

His eyes search mine.