Page 10 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The ceremony isn’t about love.

This is about power and silence. It’s about making a statement no one can afford to ignore. The old rules demand blood for a mistake like hers. Instead, I’ve offered something else—something colder. Binding. Permanent. A solution they can’t challenge without challenging me.

I stand at the far end of the aisle.

Let them glare. Let them whisper. They’re only here because they’re too afraid to miss the spectacle.

The chapel is dressed in shadows. Low lights flicker against stone walls and polished pews.

Iron candleholders line the center aisle, their wax slowly melting into the floor.

The scent of smoke clings to everything: wood, fabric, skin.

Beneath it, the fainter bite of metal and gun oil. Old habits die hard.

The Bratva elders are already seated. They don’t smile. They don’t speak. They watch with flat eyes, their hands folded like this is just another meeting in another cold room. It might as well be.

My inner circle lines the front row—Adrian, Yuri, a few others I trust not to blink if this turns ugly. No one congratulates me. They wouldn’t dare.

The priest shifts at the altar.

He’s a quiet man, old and tired, the kind who performs ceremonies like this with as little feeling as possible.

His fingers flip through the worn pages of the service book, and I can tell he’s annoyed.

Impatient. He’s used to weddings with flowers and music, not guards at every door and a woman in silk standing at gunpoint.

I don’t care about the priest.

My eyes are locked on the double doors.

They haven’t opened yet, but I can feel her on the other side, waiting for us to begin.

The doors creak open.

Every head turns. The room shifts, just slightly—an intake of breath, a flicker of posture, nothing loud or obvious. Still, I feel it ripple through the crowd. They were expecting something else. They were expecting fear. Maybe tears. Maybe resistance.

What they get is a woman wrapped in silver silk, pale as ash, but upright.

Esme steps into the room like she’s walking toward a sentence.

Her shoulders are drawn back, not with pride, but something more brittle; defiance holding its breath.

The gown clings to her, delicate and shimmering, the color making her look more ghost than bride.

But it’s her face that makes the room go still.

She looks like she might collapse under the weight of all of it, but she doesn’t.

Her jaw is set. Her eyes scan the pews, flitting from shadowed face to shadowed face, searching for something. An escape route. A sign of sympathy. Anything.

She finds nothing, and still, she walks.

Each step clicks softly against the stone floor. Her hair has been pinned back, loose curls framing her face, but not hiding it. She doesn’t lower her eyes. She doesn’t cower. That stubborn line of her spine only hardens the closer she gets.

It sharpens something in me. Interest. Hunger. Possession.

When she finally reaches me, the silence deepens. The priest stills. I don’t wait for his nod or cue. This isn’t his moment.

I reach out and grip her chin. I tighten my grip, just enough to remind her who’s in charge. “Don’t make a scene, Esme. Smile for your audience.”

Her breath catches. I tilt her face up, not roughly, but with purpose. Her skin is cool under my palm. Her pulse stutters beneath it.

Our eyes lock.

“You will take my name,” I say, loud enough for the room to hear, but meant only for her. “You will be mine in every sense.”

Her lips part, just slightly. There’s a sound half formed. Maybe a protest, maybe a question, but I tighten my grip, just enough.

Her mouth closes. Her lips press into a line. No sound comes. No objection.

That’s all I need, because her silence is enough.

I lower my hand slowly, watching every twitch of her face, every flinch she tries not to let show. Her chin lifts by instinct, her pride scraping against instinct.

“Do you understand what this means?” I murmur low, just for her.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then, quiet as a breath, she says, “You’re not saving me. You’re owning me.”

“Anyone in this room thinks they can touch what’s mine, they can try their luck. I’ll bury the first and make the rest watch.”

She blinks, slowly. “What happens if I say no?”

My gaze doesn’t waver, but my hands trail down to her neck, touch lingering. “You won’t.”

“Because I’ll die otherwise?”

“Sweetheart, I know the threat is enough.”

A tremor flashes through her, subtle, but there. She swallows it down, stands taller.

“Shall we continue?” the priest calls, dry and rehearsed, as if he’s just now remembered he has a role.

I don’t look away from her. “You will be mine,” I say. “You will bear my name, and every man in this room will know that touching you means war.”

Her chest rises sharply.

“You are not walking away from this,” I continue. “You are not disappearing. You are not forgotten. You’re mine now.”

She says nothing. Her silence stretches, but it’s louder than any vow.

The priest clears his throat. “And the bride?”

Esme’s voice is soft. “Fine.”

The word lands flat. Bitter. A blade she has to swallow.

The chapel is silent after my words. Then, the priest speaks. “We are gathered here under witness and law to bind two individuals in union, sanctioned by the code and recognized by this house.”

His voice echoes off the high ceiling, precise and dull. He turns a page. No one moves.

“This union is not forged in passion,” he continues. “It is forged in necessity. In duty. In control.”

There is no murmur of protest.

He turns toward me. “Kion Sharov. Do you accept this woman under your protection, by your name, and with your oath?”

I nod once. “I do.”

His gaze flicks to her. “Esme Claire Monroe. Do you accept this vow, and the life it brings?”

She does not answer right away. Her lips part slightly. Then close. Her fingers shift in mine.

“I do,” she says. The words are quiet. Flat. Not submissive—resigned.

The priest nods. “Then speak your oaths.”

I speak first. “I vow to protect what is mine,” I say. “To silence those who would harm it. To command loyalty, and punish betrayal.” My voice is steady, though there’s a giddiness I don’t try to hide.

The room remains still. “I take this woman into my name, my house, and my authority. She will carry my mark, and live under my shield.”

I release her hand. She hesitates again, then lifts her chin and speaks.

Her voice is softer than before, but clear.

“I vow to endure. I vow to be silent, where silence protects. I vow to belong, as survival requires.”

Her gaze flickers to mine, just once.

The priest closes the book with a soft snap.

“By the code, and the blood that built it, you are now husband and wife. Bound by law. Witnessed by this house.”

There is no applause, which is disappointing, but I suppose it’s expected.

Only a few low murmurs, the shuffle of men adjusting their coats. The elders exchange looks. Some disapprove openly. Others remain still, calculating. No one smiles.

I look at her again. She has not moved. Her hands are now clasped before her, fingers twined tightly enough to turn the knuckles white. Her shoulders remain square. Her breathing is shallow but even.

I offer my arm, and Esme takes it.

We turn together, facing the aisle. Every eye in the room follows us.

Each step forward is deliberate. She keeps pace, but tension rides in her posture. Her arm is stiff against mine. Her fingers flex slightly, restless, uncertain. She is performing now, and she knows it. So do I.

Halfway down the aisle, I lean toward her. My mouth is near her ear, my voice low and unhurried.

“Smile, wife. You’re putting on a show for men who’d kill to see me bleed. Give them nothing but envy.”

She doesn’t respond. Then, slowly, her lips lift—not in joy, not in peace, but something else. A sharp, brittle thing that carries just enough curve to pass as compliance. Her eyes remain cold.

It is the perfect answer.

I return the smile. Mine is real. Calculated. Dangerous.

We move silently, Esme clinging to my arm, and go towards the car waiting for us. I open the door and usher her in, and Esme doesn’t protest.

The car door shuts behind her with a weighty click, sealing the quiet in with us.

The engine hums, low and steady beneath our feet. The partition is already up. No driver to see. No audience. Just the two of us and the silence that’s grown sharper by the second. It isn’t comfortable. It isn’t peaceful. It’s like holding a match over dry paper, waiting for the moment it ignites.

Esme sits with her hands folded tightly in her lap, the silk of her dress rippling softly as the fabric shifts. She doesn’t fidget, but her fingers tremble just slightly. She probably thinks I won’t notice. I do.

I notice everything.

She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed out the window, though there’s nothing to see but the dark stretch of road winding toward the estate. The city lights have long since faded. Trees blur past in streaks of gray and shadow.

I don’t speak. Neither does she, but the quiet is a living thing between us. I can feel her breathing.

She’s waiting for something. A threat. A command. Maybe even a reassurance, though she’d never admit to wanting one. Her shoulders are still held high, back perfectly straight. She has pride, even now. Especially now. Dangerous, and exactly why she’s still alive.

I let the silence hold until the car turns through the gates.

The gravel drive crunches beneath the tires. The house looms ahead, dark windows staring out like watchful eyes. The porch lights are on. Everything else is in shadow.

When the car stops, I step out first.

The air is cooler here, cleaner. The breeze cuts through the heat still trapped in my collar. I round the car and open her door.

She steps out without waiting for my hand. Of course she does.

She moves like she did in the chapel: graceful, stubborn, deliberate. Her chin lifted, her steps measured, her eyes scanning every corner of the estate as if cataloging potential exits. The silk trails behind her, whispering along the ground.

I let her take three steps ahead before I say anything. Then I spin to take her hand, beaming. “The night is far from over.”

She halts. Not abruptly, but with that same careful poise she’s wielded since the ceremony began. Then she turns her head, just enough to glance at me from over her shoulder.

Her voice is low. “Of course it isn’t.”

I step closer.

I should say something else. I should tell her what comes next, what the Bratva expects of a marriage sealed in blood and law. I should remind her that her survival still depends on compliance.

Instead, I study her expression. There is fear there, but it’s buried deep beneath her rage. And something sharper. A challenge.

She’s daring me to use the power I’ve taken. Daring me to prove what kind of man I really am.

The thought sends something hot and electric through my veins.

She may be mine by name now, but nothing about her is claimed yet. Not in the way that matters.

I say nothing more as I lead her inside.

The house is quiet. Staff have been dismissed.

Guards remain outside, but none greet us at the door.

I unlock it myself, holding it open as she steps through.

Her eyes flick upward toward the chandelier, toward the wide staircase, the marble floors.

She’s taking it all in with the precision of someone who never wanted to be impressed.

She doesn’t wait to be guided. Esme moves forward, away from me, deeper into the house.

Life as a Bratva wife is no fairy tale. She will be guarded. Watched. Cut off from everything familiar, and she knows it. I see it in the set of her shoulders as she ascends the stairs. She is preparing herself for war.

I follow, silent behind her.