Page 87 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

I let my fingers trail one last time over her soaked heat, then draw them back and kiss her again. She clings to me, still trembling, still needy. My name leaves her lips like a promise.

I pull the robe closed again, slow and careful. Then I wrap my arms around her and hold her until her breathing slows.

“I’ll wait,” she whispers. “You better make good on everything you just said.”

I grin against her neck. “Oh, I will.”

Chapter Twenty-Three - Esme

The house is quiet tonight.

It’s quiet. There are no boots tracking across the marble, no doors opening and closing with urgency, no low voices trading updates in corners. The Bratva machine hums elsewhere now, away from these walls, like it’s decided—for once—to leave this place untouched.

The silence is rare. And I breathe it in like air after smoke.

The fire crackles softly in the grate. I sit curled in the armchair nearby, a woven blanket pulled over my legs, my free hand resting over the curve of my belly. The fabric of my dress is thin here, stretched just enough to show the rise of my bump through it.

Eight months.

It doesn’t feel real.

Or maybe it feels too real—like there’s something holy about this hush, this weight, this tiny life shifting under my palm. I’ve been feeling the movements more lately. Stronger. Less like flutters and more like insistence. Like the baby’s saying, I’m here. I’m growing. I’m yours.

I smile to myself, eyes half closed. For a moment, I almost keep it to myself.

Then the ache comes.

That small, irrational tug somewhere in my chest that says I don’t want to be the only one who feels this. I don’t want to keep it to myself tonight.

I want him to know it too. I want to see his face.

So I call softly, not loud—just enough. “Kion?”

Footsteps follow a moment later. Slow. Bare.

He enters from the hallway, damp hair pushed back, a towel slung around his neck. Shirtless, clean from the shower. There’s always something unreal about seeing him like this—unguarded, undone, not encased in suits or commands. His tattoos stand out sharper under the warm light, shadows pooling in the dips of muscle and scar.

He looks like a man sculpted by war and shaped by purpose—but right now, his face is softer. Curious.

He finds me watching him and smirks—just a little, all teeth and danger, even with his guard down. “Enjoying the view?” he drawls, voice rough with something only I ever get to hear.

I extend my hand toward him.

He crosses the room without hesitation and takes it. His palm is warm, rough, steady.

I guide it gently to my belly.

He stills. At first, there’s nothing. Just the faint warmth of skin beneath skin. His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t move.

And then a kick.

Firm. Sudden.

He glances at me, eyes wide, mock-accusing: “Did she just kick?”

I laugh. “She’s got your attitude.”

He squeezes my hand gently, grinning. “God help us all.”