Page 72 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

This man ran toward danger because he saw a small body teetering too close to a ledge, and he didn’t do it for show. He didn’t stop to think. He moved.

Suddenly, I can see it—our child’s tiny hand in his. Their head on his shoulder. The way he’d bend to tie their shoes without a word. The way he’d teach them without needing to raise his voice. The way he’d build them a fortress from nothing but his own strength and devotion.

Maybe he’s never had a home that was safe.

Maybe that’s why he’ll be the one to give it.

We don’t talk about it right away. I don’t try to tell him what I saw.

As we head to the front of the store and the clerk rings up the last items, I catch his reflection in the mirror behind the counter.

The bassinet is the last item we settle on—soft gray with brushed gold accents, the kind of design that whispers wealth without screaming for attention. Kion handles the payment like he does everything else: quickly, efficiently, without blinking at the number on the screen.

The clerk asks about delivery options.

“Tomorrow,” Kion says. “I want it in the front nursery by ten.”

She stutters through a confirmation and double-checks the address, hands shaking slightly as she prints the receipt. He never raises his voice, never so much as frowns, but people feel the weight of him even when he’s still.

We leave the store with fewer bags than I expected. Most things are scheduled for courier delivery. There’s a security caralready waiting by the curb, but I don’t want to go back yet. Not just yet.

Kion watches me as I slow my steps.

“I’m not finished,” I say, glancing toward the mall corridor.

He nods once. “A few more shops. No longer.”

“Deal.”

So, we wander.

That’s the only word for it.

Neither of us has anywhere urgent to be, and for the first time in weeks, I feel almost normal. Just a woman walking through a shopping center with the father of her child. His arm brushes mine as we walk. He never lets me stray far, always hovering just behind or beside, a presence that doesn’t feel suffocating—not today.

We pass a bookstore. I pause, tempted, but the smell of coffee from the attached café turns my stomach.

Kion catches my hand gently. “We’ll come back another day.”

I nod and let him lead me away.

I catch him watching couples as we pass—a man kneeling to tie his partner’s shoe, another pushing a stroller while talking on the phone. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression.

Like he’s trying to picture himself in their place.

It’s in the last boutique that everything changes.

I step forward, toward a display of buttery-soft sweaters and linen baby rompers. My fingers reach out—habit now—to touch one.

My breath catches. A sudden, tight pull blooms across my lower stomach.

My hand falls away from the hanger. I freeze mid-step, one arm instinctively wrapping across my belly. The pain tightens, then eases just slightly. Still—I grip the edge of the nearest display table. My knees tremble.

I hear Kion’s voice before I see him. Calm, low, but sharp around the edges. “Esme?”

He’s beside me in seconds, and his arm wraps around my back, the other under my arm. “Tell me.”

I can’t breathe right. “It just—tight. All of a sudden. It’s not like before. Just… pressure.”