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

Several days have passed in silence.

Silence stretched tight between us, heavy with tension neither of us names. Kion hasn’t touched me since our wedding night. His hands remain to himself, his expression unreadable, his mouth closed around whatever thoughts churn behind his eyes. Still, I feel him everywhere.

His gaze follows me constantly.

Across rooms. Through doorways. Over the edge of a glass or the rim of a book. He doesn’t hide it. He watches with the kind of quiet patience that feels more like a trap than curiosity. I know what he’s waiting for. He wants me to break. To fold. To admit that I want him again.

I don’t speak first. I won’t.

As always, my body betrays me.

Every time he looks at me too long, heat curls low in my stomach. At night, I wake tangled in sheets, thighs pressed together, panting like I’ve run miles. I dream of his hands, his mouth, the dark voice he pressed into my ear that night. I hate that I want it again.

The maid informs me there’s an event this evening.

Something small and private. A gathering, she calls it.

She doesn’t say what kind or who will be there.

She just lays the dress across the bed and waits for me to undress.

It’s a deep, wine-red satin—soft, fluid, sleeveless.

The back dips low. The neckline is tasteful, but every inch of it whispers ownership.

She helps me into it without speaking. Her fingers are deft, practiced, looping the clasp at the nape of my neck, smoothing the fabric down my spine. My hair is pinned loosely. A touch of gloss shines faintly on my lips. I look expensive. Deliberate. Designed.

When I glance in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.

I look like a dutiful wife, but I don’t feel like one. No, I feel like a prisoner dressed for display.

I step into the hallway. Kion waits near the stairwell, already in a dark suit. The collar is sharp. The cuffs are neat. His posture is effortless. I hate that he looks like he belongs in every room he walks into.

He turns when he hears me.

His eyes move slowly over me—head to toe—dragging heat across my skin with no apology. The corner of his mouth lifts, but not into a smile. It is something more satisfied. Something possessive and amused. I don’t flinch, but I feel my spine straighten beneath his gaze.

He extends his arm.

I hesitate for a moment, just long enough to let him know it’s not obedience. Then I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow.

His arm is warm. Solid.

“I wasn’t aware this was a formal event,” I say quietly.

“It isn’t,” he replies. “I want you to look good, though. I must say, you’re ravishing.” He ducks low, laughing against my ear. “I could eat you up.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a retort.

***

The car winds down a gravel path flanked by tall hedges and iron lanterns. The estate appears slowly, its old stonework glowing gold beneath the early evening lights. It is secluded, surrounded by dark woods and trimmed lawns, elegant without being showy. I recognize no one. That is by design.

Inside, the air smells like polished wood and wine.

Low music drifts in from another room, soft enough to keep the atmosphere hushed.

A handful of guests are scattered throughout the halls and garden terraces—men in sharp suits, women dressed in silk and suspicion.

No laughter. No introductions. Just nods and low murmurs, the way people speak when their words have weight.

Kion says little, but his expression is content.

His hand rests lightly on my back, more suggestion than restraint. Still, I feel its weight. His presence beside me is like a shadow I cannot shake. Every step I take is seen, measured, claimed. He speaks quietly with a man near the garden doors, but his attention never leaves me. Not really.

I need air.

I slip out of the nearest open archway, thinking I can breathe for just a minute. The garden is quiet, lit by glass lanterns on iron hooks. Rosebushes and stone benches line the path. A breeze moves through the hedges, bringing with it the smell of earth and evening.

I don’t go far. Just to the edge of the path, where the light from the house still touches the gravel.

That’s when I hear the footsteps.

I turn slightly. A man I don’t recognize stands behind me—tall, dark-haired, handsome in a curated, almost too perfect way. His suit is tailored. His smile, polished. He holds a drink in one hand, his gaze on me a little too long.

“Didn’t think I’d find you out here,” he says. “I’m glad I did.”

“I just needed some air,” I reply, polite but firm.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“Aaron Clarke,” he offers. “Old friend of the family. You must be the bride.”

My spine stiffens. “Esme.”

“Esme,” he repeats slowly, like he wants to try it on. “Lovely name.”

I nod once, already edging toward the path. “It’s late. I should rejoin my husband.”

He steps in front of me, not blocking the path outright, but shifting just enough to change the air between us. “Why rush back?” he asks. “It’s rare to find someone so… interesting at these things.”

I glance toward the house. There’s no sign of Kion.

“Your dress,” he says, “it’s wasted on him.”

The blood in my veins cools. “Excuse me?”

Aaron’s smile tilts. “He doesn’t see you. Not really. Men like him, they own, they don’t appreciate. I see you, Esme. You don’t belong in that house. You’re not like them.”

I take a slow step back. “You should go.”

Instead, he moves closer. His hand brushes my bare arm. It lingers.

I stiffen. “Don’t.”

“I can help you,” he says, voice low. “If you want out—if you want to leave him—I know how to make that happen. You shouldn’t have to play his toy just to survive.”

Panic flares in my chest. “You don’t understand,” I whisper. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Oh, I do,” he says. “I know exactly what he is. What he’s done. What you’ve become just to stay breathing, but there’s still time, Esme. You could come with me. You don’t have to be his.”

I try to pull my arm away, but his grip tightens.

His expression shifts, the mask slipping. The smile turns mocking. “Too late to pretend you like it,” he mutters. “Everyone knows. He owns you, but it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

“Let go,” I say, louder now.

He doesn’t.

I twist again, heart hammering. The panic turns jagged. His fingers dig into my arm. The garden feels too quiet. My breath shortens. My eyes flick around. There’s no guards, no Kion either.

Then I see it.

A crystal vase on the stone shelf beside the path. Heavy. Decorative. Left from some forgotten floral arrangement.

I don’t think. I just act.

My hand flies up, fingers closing around the base of the vase. I swing with everything I have.

The crystal connects with a sickening crack.

Aaron’s eyes widen just before he collapses. His knees buckle. He hits the ground in a heap, drink spilling beside him, blood blooming from his temple.

I freeze. The vase clatters from my hand and rolls across the stone. My breathing is ragged. My arms shake. My legs won’t move.

Aaron’s body lies twisted at the base of the hedge. Still. Silent.

Maybe he’s unconscious, maybe worse.

I stare at him.

Aaron lies in a crumpled heap beside the hedge, blood trickling down his temple. One of his arms is twisted awkwardly beneath him. His drink has stained the gravel beneath him with a dark red smear. I don’t know if it’s wine or blood, and I don’t want to look closer.

My hands are still raised, frozen midair.

My breath comes in shallow gasps, chest rising and falling too fast. I’m shaking—violently. My knees threaten to give out. I clutch my arms close to my body, as if I can hold myself together that way.

I don’t move.

I should feel sick. I should feel horror or revulsion or regret. I should feel something.

Except, all I feel is the echo of the moment. The heaviness of the vase in my hand. The sharp, horrible satisfaction of the impact. The way his eyes widened when he realized I meant it. The way his body folded, helpless.

Something inside me whispers, he deserved it.

That thought terrifies me more than anything else.

The silence thickens around me. Heavy. Pressing. Then I feel it—like a shift in the air, like a sixth sense.

I am no longer alone.

Kion steps out from the shadows along the garden wall, arms folded across his chest. He wears no expression at first. His suit catches the low light. His jaw is relaxed. His posture casual.

Then he smirks. His gaze drags over the scene. The blood. The broken crystal. Me.

His eyes find mine and stay there.

He walks toward me with slow, deliberate steps, his boots crunching lightly over the gravel. He doesn’t glance at Aaron. He doesn’t ask what happened. He already knows. He saw enough. Maybe all of it.

I stand frozen in place, fists clenched, breath uneven.

A slow, wolfish grin unfurls on his lips—one that says he’s enjoying this.

“Well,” he drawls, eyes glinting with amusement, “that’s one way to make an impression at your first party.”

I stare at him, breathless, still clutching my arms to my chest.

He glances at Aaron’s sprawled body. “Messy form, but excellent follow-through. Remind me not to leave my good glassware unattended next time.”

My mouth opens, then closes again. Words won’t come.

He tilts his head slightly. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t—” My voice breaks. I force the words out again. “I don’t know.”

Kion’s smirk deepens. He glances at the body, then back at me. “Does it matter?”

I shake my head. I don’t know if I’m agreeing or just trying to stay upright.

He studies me closely. “You’re shaking.”

“I hit him,” I whisper.

“You did,” he says. “You’ll do it again, if you need to.”

There is no judgment in his voice, just a glimmer of approval.

I meet his gaze again. For a moment, I feel something shift between us, something like recognition.

He steps closer, leans in, and speaks softly at my ear. “You’re a fitting wife for me, after all.”