Page 76 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

“Don’t,” I say, sharper than intended. I soften my tone. “You did nothing wrong.”

Her eyes well up, but she blinks the tears back.

I press her knuckles to my lips, just once. “New rule. You don’t so much as fetch a glass of water without my say-so. You want something, you ask. Hell, you think about wanting something, and I’ll make it happen before you blink.”

She gives a faint smile. “You always do.”

I promise her—without words—that I’ll tear the world in half before I let this happen again.

Chapter Twenty-One - Esme

Days blend together now.

Not because they’re peaceful—this house is never peaceful—but because they move in silence. In caution. In whispers behind closed doors and muted footsteps across marble.

The Bratva world still exists on the other side of the walls; I know it does. I hear the echo of hushed voices when I wake in the morning. I see the flicker of shadows moving past the windows. Armed guards who don’t speak unless spoken to. Men who stand straighter when Kion enters a room.

Here, in the softest corner of this fortress, I exist in a bubble. One that wraps around me like gauze and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Since the hospital, I don’t argue about rest. Not anymore.

My body reminds me every time I shift too quickly. Every time I push myself to reach something just out of arm’s length. There’s a strange tightness in my muscles, like they’re waiting for something to go wrong again.

I’ve learned to listen.

What surprises me most is him, how much he’s changed. He’s still sharp, cold, impossible to read, but something’s different in the way he moves through my space now.

He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t fawn. There are no declarations or soft confessions or reassurances whispered in the dark.

Instead, it’s precision.

A rhythm.

Tea appears beside my bed each morning, perfectly steeped, never too hot. Always in the mug I once said I liked best.

I catch him sometimes. In the early hours, long before sunrise, slipping in with a quiet clink of porcelain. He thinks I’m sleeping. But I watch him through slitted eyes as he sets the tray down, adjusts the folded napkin, adds just a touch of honey to the side dish.

Today, the private nurse he hired arrives right after breakfast. Her name’s Helena. Tall, clipped tone, neat uniform. She’s professional, but kind enough.

Still—he’s the one who helps me into my robe.

I sit on the edge of the bed, arms raised slightly, and he lifts the fabric over my shoulders with rough hands that are somehow… gentle. Not trembling. Not rushed. Just patient.

“You don’t have to,” I murmur.

“I know,” he replies. “Maybe I enjoy pampering you, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t look at me, but he adjusts the belt around my waist anyway, then cups my elbow as I stand.

Later, I rest on the lounge chair in the sunroom. Helena hovers close but gives me space. I pretend to read. Mostly I just watch the garden and let the sunlight warm my legs.

The door opens behind me.

I glance up; it’s him again.

He crosses the room in long strides, saying nothing. But his eyes flick over me from head to toe—scanning for any sign of discomfort.

“You’re late,” I tease.