Page 11 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The water is too hot.

It burns as it pours over my shoulders, down my spine, searing across my skin like punishment. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I let it scald. Let it bite into me the way his eyes did at the altar, the way his fingers gripped my chin with quiet, possessive command.

I scrub hard. Harder than I should. My skin turns red beneath the lather, but I keep going. Like if I dig deep enough, I can scrape away the weight of the vows. The dress. The eyes of those men in the chapel, watching me like I was currency changing hands.

There’s no blood on me—not real blood. But it feels like there should be.

The soaps here smell expensive. Vanilla, honey, something floral I can’t name. None of it matters. I could bathe in gold and still feel dirty. I could scrub until I bleed and it wouldn’t change the truth.

He married me.

He claimed me, a nd I stood there and let him.

The towels are soft when I finally step out, too soft. The robe even more so, thick and silken and warm. It hugs my body like a lie. I wrap it around myself and turn toward the mirror.

I look like someone else.

The woman in the reflection is pale, her collarbone stark, her lips pressed into a line too thin to pass for calm. Her hair is damp and curling at the ends. Her eyes are wide, rimmed with fatigue; but behind the exhaustion is something else. Something sharper. Stubborn. Still burning.

My fingers brush the edge of the vanity. I grip it for a second.

I want to scream. Instead, I listen.

Nothing. Silence presses against the walls like smoke. I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of that door. That’s what keeps me frozen.

I breathe once, twice.

Then I move.

Each step toward the door feels slow, heavy. My heart pounds against my ribs. I can’t tell if it’s fear or something worse. Something I don’t want to name. A thrill. A flicker of heat from his touch earlier—his fingers brushing my arm with full intent, no apology.

I reach the door. I hesitate.

I’m not sure if I’m scared of him, or if I’m scared of what part of me might want him.

When I step out, he’s already there.

He sits sprawled in a leather chair, taking up too much space, as if he owns every square inch of it.

One leg hooked over the other, a drink balanced in his fist. But it’s his eyes that pin me where I stand.

He watches me the way a king surveys his latest conquest: not with tenderness, but with the arrogant expectation that I’ll fall apart for him, and for him alone.

The air thickens around us.

I stop just inside the doorway. The robe clings to my damp skin, heavy from steam, knotted tightly at my waist. My legs feel bare beneath it. My pulse pounds in my throat.

He doesn’t speak at first. Kion sets the glass down, careful and deliberate. Then he rises. One smooth motion.

He moves toward me, slow but without hesitation. His gaze never leaves mine. I want to step back, but my feet won’t move. Something keeps me rooted there—fear, defiance, curiosity. Maybe all of them.

When he stops in front of me, I tilt my chin up before I realize I’ve done it.

His hand lifts. He touches my face, not a full caress, just the edge of his fingers tracing my jaw, sliding down to the hollow of my throat. It’s not rough, not possessive like before. It’s worse than that. It’s gentle.

My breath catches.

The robe isn’t enough. He knows that.

His thumb presses lightly against the side of my neck, just enough to feel my pulse jump beneath it. I’m shaking, just a little, and I know he feels that too.

Then he kisses me.

There’s nothing soft about it. His mouth crushes mine with heat and hunger, his hand tangling in the damp ends of my hair. I gasp, and he swallows the sound, lips parting mine with force. His tongue pushes in, claiming, tasting, dragging a shudder from my chest that I cannot hide.

His other hand finds the knot at my waist. The robe loosens. My body stiffens, but I don’t stop him. I can’t.

His palm slides beneath the silk, rougher than I expect, splaying wide over my bare hip. His fingers press in, dragging along the curve of me, tracing the heat beneath my skin. I’m breathing too fast. I feel him hard against my stomach, feel the heat roll off him in waves.

“Still so quiet, Esme. I like it. When you’re moaning my name, it will sound so much better.”

His hand moves lower. I tremble.

The kiss leaves me breathless.

His mouth covers mine like he owns the air in my lungs, like he has the right to take whatever he wants.

His tongue moves with slow pressure, tasting, claiming.

There’s no softness, no patience—only heat and demand and the way his hand keeps moving beneath the robe, sliding over my bare skin like he already knows every part of me.

I’ve never been touched like this.

Never been touched, really. At least not in any way that mattered, not like this. Not by someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, who watches every flinch like it’s a map, who uses each breath against me like a weapon.

His hand cups the back of my thigh and lifts.

The robe parts easily, falling open across my hips. I’m naked beneath it. I feel the rush of air between us, and then the heat of his body pressing forward.

He walks me backward with purpose.

Each step pushes me toward the bed behind us, one hand still on my jaw, the other gripping my waist. My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he doesn’t stop—he leans in until I fall back, breathless, the robe pooling around me like torn petals.

His gaze drags over me slowly. His pupils are dark, dilated. His jaw tight. I don’t look away.

He shrugs off his jacket, pulls open the collar of his shirt. His movements are controlled but fast. I hear the sharp sound of a belt unbuckling, the slick slide of fabric pulled loose, then he’s crawling up onto the bed above me.

“You’re mine now,” he says.

The words make something inside me twist, hot and sharp.

His hand wraps around my ankle and pulls it outward. He moves between my legs, settling there, his body hot and heavy against mine. His mouth finds the curve of my collarbone and bites, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to make me gasp.

Then lower.

He kisses the underside of my breast, then sucks a nipple into his mouth without warning, tongue circling the tight peak until my hips jerk beneath him. His hand slides down to grip my thigh and spread me wider. I try to close my legs, but it’s too late—he already has me open.

His fingers slide between my folds, and I arch under him with a groan.

He groans low, pleased, like he’s just confirmed something. “Wet already.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

His fingers drag through me again, then press in—one at first, then two. I cry out, biting down on the inside of my lip to keep from screaming. He stretches me, works me open like he’s preparing me for something he knows I’m not ready for.

“You’ve never been fucked before?” he demands, his voice a rough scrape of pride and possession.

“No.”

He grins, wolfish. “Good. I want to be the only one you remember. The only one you ever think about, after this.”

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. His fingers move, slow at first, then deeper, curving in a way that makes my body light up with unfamiliar heat. His thumb finds the sensitive spot at the top and rubs slow circles, coaxing reactions I don’t want to give him.

I give them anyway. My hips lift, my mouth opens.

He watches me. Even as he touches me, even as my legs tremble, Kion never stops looking—like he’s learning every inch of me by the way I fall apart.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “You’re soaked, all because of me. You like it, hmm?”

I hate how much I do.

He pulls his fingers free and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean. I watch, dazed. My thighs are slick and shaking.

Then I feel him press against me—hot, hard, thick. His cock pulses, stretches me so impossibly wide I can hardly think.

He leans down, bracing one hand beside my head. His mouth brushes my ear. “This is going to hurt.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens in my hair, laughter brushing against my ear. He enjoys it, I think, making me squirm. “Good girl.”

He pushes in, slow and brutal.

The stretch burns. I cry out. My fingers claw at the sheets, gripping hard as he buries himself inch by inch. He’s too big, too deep, and my body fights it. He waits a second, breathing hard above me.

Then he moves.

The rhythm starts heavy, slow thrusts that build quickly. His hips slam into mine, forcing my legs wider, forcing my body to take him. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I cling to his shoulders as he fucks me hard, his mouth at my throat, his voice dark against my skin.

“You’re perfect,” he growls. “So hot for me.”

Each word drives into me as hard as his cock does.

I don’t mean to moan. I don’t mean to cry out his name either, but I do. Over and over.

My body clenches around him, tighter with each thrust. The heat builds until I’m unraveling, the orgasm hitting hard and fast. I shudder beneath him, nails dragging down his back, lips parting in a broken sob.

He follows.

He presses deep, groaning low as he spills inside me. I feel the heat of it, the pulse of him still buried deep, the weight of his body holding me to the bed like a brand.

When he finally pulls back, he looks down at me; eyes blazing, possessive.

“What a perfect, good girl.”

I can’t speak, but my body says it for me.

We lie there for a while, tangled in heat and silence.

My body still throbs, stretched and slick from what he’s already taken.

The air between us is thick with sweat and something darker.

Possession. My legs shake faintly where they rest beside his hips, and I can feel the echo of him deep inside me, pulsing like an aftershock.

His hand moves lazily over my thigh, palm warm, fingers trailing marks only I will feel tomorrow.

I try to catch my breath.

He watches me.