Page 1 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The smell hits me before my eyes even open: warm yeast, cinnamon, something sweet just starting to caramelize.

It’s the same every morning, and still, it never fails to drag me out of bed.

I dress quickly, moving through the motions like muscle memory: black leggings, a faded T-shirt, the pale blue apron that’s seen too many flour dustings and coffee spills to count.

By the time the sky’s just beginning to soften, I’m already halfway down the narrow staircase that connects my tiny attic room to the bakery below.

Mrs. Geller’s already in the back kneading dough, her grunts of effort echoing faintly over the quiet hum of the early morning. I tie my apron tighter and push through the swinging door, the familiar jingle of the bell above it greeting me like an old friend.

The front of the bakery glows soft gold from the overhead lights, the display case already half full with fresh loaves and sticky buns. I move behind the counter, flicking on the coffee machine, setting out cups, stacking napkins. Everything exactly where it should be. Predictable. Easy.

The first regular shuffles in not long after. Mr. Halvorsen, always in before six, always wants black coffee and two slices of the banana bread. We don’t talk much. He tips his cap, I hand him the to-go bag, and he slips out before the second chime of the door can even fade.

By the time the sun crests over the rooftops, the flow of customers has picked up.

Locals mostly—old women with scarves tied under their chins, tired men on their way to work, teenagers who pretend not to care that I remember their orders.

I pour, smile, ring up pastries, offer polite hellos. It’s all very pleasant. Very normal.

Too normal, maybe.

There’s a stillness underneath it all now.

A kind of itch I can’t name. I’ve been here almost four years—ever since the orphanage shoved me out with a diploma and a list of charities that “might help.” Mrs. Geller offered me a room and part-time work until I found my footing, but I never really left.

I told myself it was because of school. The hours were flexible, and I liked the smell of sugar and flour clinging to my skin.

Lately… I don’t know. Something inside me feels restless. Like I’ve been waiting for something without realizing it. Or maybe I’m starting to suspect nothing’s coming at all.

The bell rings again, and I look up out of habit. Another familiar face. Another coffee order I already know. I smile, polite and practiced, and reach for the cup.

Just another morning.

I finish wiping down the counter, hands sticky with sugar and steam, and nod goodbye to Mrs. Geller as I untie my apron.

She barely looks up, muttering something about the rye loaves and shaking flour from her hands.

I don’t take it personally; she’s always been more oven than emotion.

I slip out the side door into the street, the late morning air already warming against my skin.

The bookstore’s only a ten-minute walk, and I make it in eight.

Linden just rough outlines, pencil smudges and faint lines.

A woman with a crooked smile. A boy with shoes too big.

Strangers I’ll never meet, but who feel more real to me than most of the people I know.

Claire asks me once if I ever get bored, working two jobs with no break in between. I tell her no. I like it this way. Structure keeps the restlessness at bay. Stillness makes it worse.

It’s near closing when Claire ducks her head into the back and asks if I can cover a delivery.

Someone from the front desk was supposed to take it—a box of rare editions we finally tracked down for one of the private clients—but he called out.

Migraine, apparently. Claire looks apologetic, but she’s already holding the clipboard out toward me, like she knows I’ll say yes.

She’s right. I always say yes.

“It’s just a couple neighborhoods over,” she says, tapping the address. “Industrial district. Kind of weird, but he paid upfront and tipped big.”

I nod, pulling my hoodie over my head. The late afternoon sun is already softening, dipping low enough that the shadows stretch long between buildings. “Got it. Be back in an hour?”

Claire grins. “I owe you.”

The box isn’t heavy, just awkward—probably first editions or some old hardcovers someone’s hoarding like treasure. I balance it against my hip, wave goodbye, and head out.

The walk starts normal. Familiar storefronts give way to newer developments, then to older warehouses, red brick gone gray with grime and rain. It’s not a bad part of town, not exactly. Just… forgotten. No foot traffic. No lights on in the windows.

My phone buzzes once in my pocket—a low battery warning—and I ignore it. Should’ve charged it last night, but I’d fallen asleep sketching again, pencil still tucked behind my ear when I woke up. I check the address once more before the screen dies completely, a soft flicker and then black. Great.

Still, the location’s easy enough to remember. A long street name. A numbered lot. I keep walking.

By the time I reach the building, my arms are starting to ache from the way I’ve been cradling the box.

It looks… not what I expected. The email said “private collection,” but this isn’t someone’s house.

It’s a warehouse. Old, tall, unmarked. The windows are dirty and too high to see through, the metal door shut tight with no sign of a bell.

I set the box down on the stoop and knock once, then again.

No answer.

I try the handle, half expecting it to be locked.

It doesn’t budge. I lean back, glance up at the building like it might offer some explanation.

Nothing moves. The whole street feels… off.

Empty in a way that doesn’t feel normal, even for this part of town.

There’s no wind, no cars passing by. The air’s still. Too still.

I knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

The silence stretches long enough that my heartbeat starts to pick up. I check over my shoulder, casually, like I’m not expecting to see anything at all. There’s no one behind me. No one down the street. Not even the hum of distant traffic.

I swallow and look back at the box. It’s too valuable to leave out here, but I don’t exactly want to stand around holding it either. There’s a flicker of doubt in my chest now, a slow crawl up my spine. I glance around again, more pointed this time.

Still no one.

It’s probably nothing. Probably just a late pickup, or maybe they forgot the appointment. I set the box down gently beside the door, pulling a receipt from the clipboard and scribbling a note across the back: Delivery attempted at 6:42 PM.

I tape it to the top, double check the address, then straighten up.

The street feels even quieter than it did five minutes ago. I can hear the sound of my own breathing, the soft rustle of my hoodie when I shift. There’s no logical reason for the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. But they do.

I tell myself it’s the area. I’m not from here. Maybe it’s just unfamiliar… but I still look behind me again.

The warehouse next door has a loading dock, half-collapsed stairs leading up to a row of shadowed windows. The alley between them is narrow and dark, trash bins lined like sentinels down the edge. Something drips from one, a slow, wet sound. I try not to focus on it.

I shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and start back the way I came.

Then I hear something, a low clatter. Metal on pavement. I freeze.

It came from behind the building.

For a split second, I think maybe someone’s finally shown up for the delivery. Maybe I just missed them. Maybe it’s—

Another sound. Footsteps this time. Then a voice, sharp and guttural, foreign. Russian, maybe? I only catch the rhythm, not the meaning. More footsteps follow. Heavy. Purposeful.

I step backward slowly, trying to keep my breath quiet.

Another voice. Lower this time. Calm, but with an edge like glass.

I back away faster, feet scraping against the concrete. My bag shifts against my hip. I flinch as it bumps the box, sending it rattling into the door.

Silence.

The kind that hums in my ears and makes me too aware of every breath I take. My fingers twitch at my sides, useless and uncertain. The voices have stopped. So have the footsteps. No one’s come around the corner. No one’s opened the door.

I wait one beat. Two.

Then the sounds return, fainter this time. Footsteps again, but moving away. A door slams somewhere in the distance, followed by the low, metallic grind of something heavy being dragged across concrete. Then… nothing. Quiet settles over the alley like a held breath.

I edge forward, just a little. Straining to hear. Should I call out?

I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes flicking toward the door again.

It’s their delivery. They paid for it. I’ve come all this way.

If they’re still back there—whoever they are—maybe they’re just busy.

Maybe they didn’t hear me knock. Maybe I should announce myself, say I’m with Linden & Page and have their books.

I don’t.

Something about the silence feels too sharp, too… expectant. Like the building itself is listening, waiting. The voices hadn’t sounded friendly. Not even neutral. Just clipped, cold, transactional.

My instincts scream that I shouldn’t be here.

I stay rooted to the spot, trying to make sense of it—trying to convince myself I’m overreacting. That it’s just a strange delivery, that I’ll laugh about it later. But my heart’s pounding too loud in my chest. My palms are damp.

Something about this feels very wrong.