Page 92 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

I’m already moving. I catch her before she hits the floor, arms tight around her back and under her thighs.

She clutches my shirt, breath stuttering. “Something’s wrong.”

Then I feel it, warmth spreads across my arms. My chest.

She’s soaked.

It takes a beat—just one.

Then it hits me. Her waters broke.

“No.” My voice breaks out of me, sharper than I mean it to be. “You’re early. You’re not supposed to—fuck.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. She groans, low and deep.

“Yuri!” I shout, already pushing through the door. “Get the car, now!”

My voice echoes through the hall like a gunshot.

She trembles in my arms. She’s gone pale.

“Breathe,” I murmur. “Stay with me. Look at me.”

She lifts her eyes, and there’s panic in them now. I try to push mine down. I can’t let her see it.

The front door is already open when I get there. Someone heard me. Good.

“Move!” I bark at the driver as I carry her straight to the car. “Hospital, now. Go as fast as you can, I don’t give a fuck about speed limits.”

She clings to me as I slide into the back with her still in my arms.

The car jolts forward.

I press a hand to her belly. It’s too early, she’s only eight months in.

“Does it hurt?”

She nods, teeth clenched.

I kiss her forehead, trying to breathe. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m scared.”

I look her dead in the eyes. “I’m not letting anything happen to you. Or her. Do you hear me?”

Tears cling to her lashes, but she nods.

My hands are shaking. I’ve held a gun to a man’s head and never once felt my fingers tremble.

Holding her like this? This is different.

The car barely stops before I’m out, Esme still in my arms.

“Emergency,” I bark to the front desk as we push through the sliding doors. “Preterm labor. She’s early.”

They don’t ask questions. One look at her face, the soaked fabric, and they spring into motion.

A wheelchair appears. I lower her into it gently. Her hand doesn’t leave mine.