Page 68 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

He’s quiet at that. Just nods slowly, like he’s trying to understand something he knows he never really will.

“You love her?”

Yuri laughs, but I cut him a look. “It’s simple. She’s mine. All in. No returns. The kid too. That’s my legacy.”

Yuri whistles, “Careful, you’ll start a rumor.”

I bare my teeth in a grin. “Let them gossip, see if I care.”

“No shit.” He just laughs, and rolls his eyes. “You got it, Boss. I’ll have everything set up by tomorrow.”

I nod once.

The door clicks shut behind him. I stand alone again.

I return to the one place that hasn’t let me sleep in days—my private office, just off the bedroom Esme now sleeps in.

The lights stay low. I don’t need them bright. I already know what’s on the screen.

I sit, pulling up the surveillance feed from the night of the attack.

Camera three. Alley mouth. Zoom in.

There she is—slipping through the fence gap, coat too big, her body curled like she’s already preparing to defend something. Her arms around her stomach. Her eyes darting. The way she moves: hesitant, then faster. Then almost panicked.

I watch her breathe.

Then I rewind, and I watch it again.

And again.

The exact moment her hand flies to her abdomen. The exact second her head jerks to the side, sensing footsteps before they even round the corner.

My thumb tightens against the scrub wheel.

Frame. By. Frame.

Her mouth opens in a gasp. She stumbles back. Clarke appears—blurry at first, then clearer. Approaching too close. Smiling.

I pause the footage.

His face burns back at me through the screen.

My jaw clenches so tightly it aches.

I rewind. Again. And again. Until my knuckles go white around the armrest. Until the plastic creaks.

It’s not just the fear in her eyes that twists something deep inside me, it’s the helplessness.

She’s carrying my child. It’s not a theory anymore. Not something distant. It’s a very real, veryimportantthing, and I can’t let anything hurt her or that baby.

Except, I let them get close enough to take it all away.

I slam the monitor off with one sharp jab of my knuckles.

The screen goes black. My reflection stares back—jaw clenched, eyes bloodshot, the weight of the night still sitting in the hard set of my shoulders.

I push up from the chair, go to the corner cabinet and pour myself two fingers of whisky. No ice.