Page 13 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

Her lips are parted, her throat still marked by my mouth—a reminder for her, and a warning for everyone else. I leave evidence. I want it seen. I want every last bastard in this house to know exactly who she belongs to.

I sit in the armchair near the foot of the bed.

My elbows rest on my knees. My fingers are laced, knuckles pressing against my chin. I haven’t moved in a while. I haven’t spoken. I don’t need to, not now.

She lies on her side, legs drawn in, one arm tucked under her head, the other folded across her chest. Like she’s guarding herself even in sleep.

Her lashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks.

Her lips are slightly parted. There’s a smear of color on her throat from my mouth—faint, but mine.

Still, she looks untouched. Fragile, in a way she never once acted.

Even after everything I’ve done to her. Even after tonight.

That unsettles me.

She should be shattered. Furious. Hollowed out. Even now, in sleep, there’s something in her that refuses to break.

It stirs something sharp inside me. Something I thought I’d buried long ago.

Possession.

Primal instinct.

She was soft beneath me, yes—but never limp. She didn’t cry when I pushed her past what she could take. She didn’t beg. She didn’t plead. She met my eyes. She burned under me. She stayed with me.

I didn’t expect that.

I’ve had women before. Plenty. Willing ones, eager ones. The kind who learned to please, who knew the rules before I ever gave them. Esme is different.

She doesn’t know the rules. She keeps trying to rewrite them.

Her fear is real, but so is her defiance. Her curiosity. That quiet little spark she tries to hide.

The Bratva would call it weakness. Let them. If they want to test me, they can try—for all their talk, none of them have the balls. I do what I want, take what I want, and they know better than to get in my way.

***

By dawn, I still haven’t slept.

The room is dim, her breathing the only sound that’s managed to keep me still for this long. I watch the way her fingers twitch in sleep, the soft pull of a frown that lingers even in rest. She dreams like someone braced for pain. Even here, even now, some part of her refuses to let go.

When the sun starts to rise, I stand.

I move through the house without sound, past the guards posted in the hall, through the long stretch of corridors leading to my office. The room smells like leather and old smoke. I leave the door open behind me.

Then I call Yuri.

He answers on the second ring. “You alive?”

“I need a courier. Someone I don’t have to babysit.”

There’s a pause. Then, “What kind of delivery?”

“Did I stutter, are you angling for the job yourself?”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Boss.”

I sit behind the desk, lean back in the chair with one leg propped on the desk. “If you must know, I need books.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Did you just say books?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He exhales through his nose, amused, maybe a little confused. “You want titles?”

I glance at the list I pulled from her phone three days ago, when she was still unconscious in the basement and I had the time to go digging through every inch of her life.

A reading wish list. Some rare. Some out of print.

A few only found in local libraries back in that quiet little town she came from.

She never told me about them. She didn’t need to.

“I’ve got them,” I say. “Use the list I sent.”

He grunts. “You planning to start a new collection, or is this for her?”

“I don’t pay you to ask questions.”

“Right. I’ll have them delivered this morning.”

He hangs up with a sigh, and I can hear the roll in his eyes.

I know Esme. Even the quiet, tucked-away parts she thought no one would ever see. I know what she wants. What she reaches for. What her mind clings to when the world is too loud. That knowledge is mine now.

Later, I watch from the doorway as she unwraps them.

The box is left outside her room with no note. She finds it after her shower, still in a fresh robe, hair damp around her face. Her fingers move over the edges of the box before she lifts the lid. Slowly. Hesitantly. Her hands shake when she sees what’s inside.

Her fingers graze the spines like she’s afraid they might vanish if she touches them too hard. She pulls one out—a hardcover first edition with her hometown’s library barcode still on the back—and holds it against her chest like she’s trying not to fall apart.

Then, after a long silence, she turns.

She sees me watching from the doorway. Her mouth tightens. Her shoulders go rigid… and then she erupts.

“This doesn’t make you a good person.”

Her voice is sharp. She doesn’t yell, but she’s furious, the kind of anger that’s been simmering too long beneath silence. She clutches the book in one hand, like she wants to throw it. I almost want her to.

“This,” she says, holding the book up, “this doesn’t undo anything. It doesn’t make what you did right. You’re not generous. You’re not thoughtful. You’re a horrible, violent bastard who happens to have access to a courier.”

I step into the room.

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t back down. That only makes me want to test her more.

“You think these change something?” she asks. “That because you know what I read, or where I’m from, or what kind of paper I like in my notebooks, that you’ve earned anything from me?”

I step closer, let the arrogance settle between us. “I don’t have to earn shit from you, Esme. I do this because I can. Because it entertains me. Don’t pretend you’re not impressed. No one else in your life has ever known you this well. No one else ever will.”

The truth lands like a slap. She flinches, just slightly. “Control, then,” she says coldly. “That’s what this is.”

“Control, fun, it can be both.”

She goes quiet again.

The book presses against her ribs. Her fingers twitch. She’s shaking, not with fear, but frustration. Containment. She wants to scream and doesn’t. She wants to fight and knows it will do nothing. That awareness is what draws me to her again and again. The fire she can’t smother.

I watch her wrestle with herself.

“You could’ve left me in the dark,” she mutters. “You should have.”

“Then I wouldn’t get to see this,” I say, nodding toward her chest. “The way your heart beats when you think you’ve figured me out.”

She flushes, furious.

“I hate you,” she whispers.

“No, you don’t,” I reply. “You’re just not sure what it is you feel. Not yet.”

She opens her mouth to snap back, but nothing comes out.

For a moment, I think Esme might throw the book.

Then her hand lowers slowly, still trembling, still white-knuckled around the spine like she can’t decide whether to hurl it at my chest or hold it to her like a lifeline.

Her breathing is sharp. Too fast. Anger still burns in her eyes, but beneath it, I see the cracks forming.

I step closer.

She doesn’t move away. That’s her first mistake.

I reach for her waist, slow and steady, fingers slipping past the folds of her robe to find the bare heat of her skin. Her breath catches as I pull her forward, close enough that her chest brushes mine, the book now pinned between us.

She opens her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to scream—but I don’t give her the chance.

I lean in and speak against her ear. “Need I remind you, you’re mine now.”

The words are low. Quiet, but there’s nothing gentle about them.

My hand slides higher, fingers splayed against the curve of her back, keeping her exactly where I want her. Her body stiffens beneath my touch, every muscle drawn tight. Still, she doesn’t pull away.

I pin her close, grip unyielding. “Don’t make me repeat myself—you’re mine. Everyone in this house knows it. You think you can walk away? Try it. I dare you.”

I feel her shiver.

I lean in, let my mouth graze her ear—deliberately, possessively. “Anyone so much as thinks about touching you, I’ll make an example of them. You’ll watch me do it, and you’ll thank me for the privilege.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. Her nails dig into the cover of the book like she needs something to hold on to. Her pulse thrums against my jaw.

“You want to hate me,” I say. “You think that makes you safe.” My hand grips her tighter. She gasps as her hips bump into mine. “I know what’s happening inside you.”

Her thighs press together, just slightly, and I smile in satisfaction.

“You’re starting to crave it,” I whisper, nipping at her ear. “You hate that you do, but you want more.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t prove that.”

I smile against her skin. “You’ll beg for it eventually,” I say. “You’ll beg for me, just as I deserve.”

Her breath stutters.

I don’t speak the next part out loud, but the truth is already settled in my mind like a blade buried in bone.

She has me, heart and soul. Entirely. Irrevocably. Whether she knows it or not.

I pull back slowly, just enough to look at her.

Her eyes are still wide, lips parted, chest rising too fast beneath the robe.

The book is clutched between us, forgotten now.

Her body’s still pressed to mine, her breath still shaking.

She hasn’t said a word, not since I spoke those truths into her ear—truths she doesn’t want to believe, but can’t quite deny.

I watch her for a moment longer, just to see if she’ll break the silence.

She doesn’t.

I release her waist with deliberate slowness. Her robe slips slightly, exposing the curve of her hip. I don’t fix it. I let her feel the chill in the air. I let her remember my hands there.

Then I step back.

Her fingers tighten around the book in her hands, holding it now like a shield. She swallows once, jaw tense, throat working. She still won’t look away from me, though. That matters.

“Enjoy the books,” I say, voice suddenly teasing. “You’ll have a lot of free time now that you’re my wife, hmm?”

I don’t offer anything more: not an apology, not an explanation. I don’t reassure her. That isn’t what this is.

I nod toward the box at her feet, still half full. “They’re yours now. All of them.”

Her expression flickers, something between confusion and resentment. I see the question in her eyes, but she doesn’t ask it. Good. She’s learning.

Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk to the door.

The silence behind me stays heavy, clinging to the air like smoke. I can feel her watching. She wants to say something. Maybe stop me. Maybe curse me out again. She does neither.