Page 15 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

I lean against the wall inside the corridor, half in shadow, the edge of the garden visible through the open archway. A drink rests in my hand, the glass cool against my fingers. The music from the main hall is distant now, a low hum beneath the pulse of night. The air outside is still.

Esme moves quietly down the garden path.

She thinks she’s alone.

Her shoulders rise and fall with the rhythm of restraint.

She’s not running. But she is retreating.

I watch the curve of her back as she steps beneath the lantern light, the wine-red satin of her dress hugging her hips like it was sewn onto her skin.

Her hair falls in soft curls down her spine. Her posture is tense. Controlled.

She doesn’t see him yet.

I do.

Aaron Clarke moves like a man who believes he has a right to be in every room. He always has. His suit is too neat. His smile too sharp. He watches her walk and waits until she is far enough from the others, then follows.

I sip my drink.

Clarke is not subtle.

His steps are smooth, confident, just loud enough to let her hear him.

He plays the part well—charming, effortless, dangerous in the way people underestimate until it’s too late.

He’s not loyal to me. He’s not even loyal to the men who think they have use for him. He’s an opportunist. The worst kind.

He thinks Esme is a weakness. That’s his first mistake.

He reaches her. I can’t hear every word, but I hear enough. He flatters her. He compliments the dress. He uses her name like it’s an invitation. She shifts away, just slightly, her voice polite but edged. I see the moment he ignores it.

He steps closer, and her body tenses.

He touches her arm, and I have to resist every urge to rip his from its socket.

I want to see what she’ll do. If she’ll step back or lean in. If she’ll use the moment to her advantage. If she’ll turn to him and give away something that belongs to me. I watch the set of her shoulders, the tremble in her breath, the way she glances toward the house.

Then she turns back and strikes.

Her hand grabs the vase from the shelf—thick crystal, meant for decoration. She doesn’t hesitate. She swings hard. The sound is clear. Final. His body drops like dead weight.

The drink in my hand grows warmer.

I set it aside and walk toward her, slow and unhurried. My boots sound loud against the stone. I let them. She needs to hear me.

She turns when I’m close enough.

Her eyes are wide. Her chest heaves. Her hands are shaking. The vase lies shattered at her feet, a thin line of blood trailing toward the edge of the hedge. She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I’ll do next. Like she doesn’t know what she’s just done.

She looks perfect.

“Well, that’s one way to make an impression at your first party. Messy form, but excellent follow-through. Remind me not to leave my good glassware unattended next time.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. Then—barely—she finds her voice. “I hit him.”

“You did,” I say. “Is he dead?”

She stares at the blood. “I don’t know.”

“Does it matter?”

Her mouth opens again, but she only shakes her head.

“You’re shaking.”

Her eyes rise to meet mine. There’s panic behind them, but there’s something else too. Something darker.

“You’re a fitting wife for me after all,” I add. I brush a lock of hair away from her face. She doesn’t flinch. “You didn’t freeze,” I say. “You struck and defended yourself.”

Her breath trembles. “I didn’t plan it.”

“That makes it better.”

Her hands are still shaking. Her fingers twitch like they don’t know what to hold on to. She’s pale, but she’s upright. She’s not crying.

I step in close.

I glance back toward the corridor. Yuri is already halfway down the path, another man just behind him. They don’t ask questions. They don’t need to.

“Take her to the car,” I say, my voice sharp and cold. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Yuri nods once. He reaches for Esme’s arm—not roughly, but firmly. She stiffens beneath his touch, eyes darting between me and the body still slumped on the ground. She doesn’t speak. There’s too much adrenaline in her system. Too much fear. Too much she hasn’t admitted yet.

Esme doesn’t resist when they lead her away.

I crouch beside the body. Aaron Clarke lies face down in the gravel, one hand curled beneath his chest, blood trailing from the gash above his brow. His breathing is shallow, and his mouth twitches faintly.

I study him for a long moment. His suit is expensive. His shoes are new. His loyalty was never worth the thread it was stitched to. He thought he could use her to get to me. He thought she would fold. She didn’t.

I exhale once through my nose and murmur low—something clipped and sharp, a curse born from contempt more than rage.

Then I draw my gun. The weight is familiar. My hand doesn’t shake.

He stirs; one eye cracks open, unfocused. There’s a flicker of confusion, then fear.

The shot is clean, spraying blood against the grass and stone behind him.

A lesson has been given, one that won’t need repeating.

***

The house is quiet now.

Cleaned. Silent. Controlled.

The garden has been swept and scrubbed, the blood rinsed from the stones.

The broken vase is gone. So is the body.

No questions were asked, and none will be.

The guests returned to their drinks, their games, their careful conversations.

No one mentioned what happened. They all understood exactly what it meant.

Esme hasn’t spoken since.

She’s locked herself in her room, or pretended to. She didn’t scream. She didn’t sob. The maids say she walked upstairs on her own, sat on the edge of the bed, and hasn’t moved.

I let the silence sit for a while, but now, I want answers.

I want to see how deep tonight really went. I want to see what lingers in her eyes when no one else is watching.

So I push the door open and step inside, slow and quiet. She hears it. Her head lifts fast, her back going straight, but she doesn’t rise. She doesn’t run.

Smart girl.

She’s sitting in a silk nightdress, the same shade as the one from the wedding night.

Her legs are curled to one side, her arms folded tightly around her middle like she’s trying to hold herself still.

Her hair is down now, falling soft over her shoulders.

She looks too delicate for the weight she’s carrying.

I close the door behind me. The click is deliberate. Final.

Her eyes follow me as I move.

I circle the bed slowly, saying nothing. I let my steps echo in the thick quiet. I want her to feel the tension again. I want her to remember that her place in this house is not negotiable. But I also want her to understand something else.

I let the silence drag, enjoying her discomfort. “You know, there were men at that party who’d have paid to see what you did out there. Hell, I might start selling tickets next time.”

She shifts, unsure if I’m serious.

I crouch by the bed, crowding her space. “You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even check if anyone was watching. That’s my kind of loyalty.”

She starts to speak. I raise a finger, silencing her with a smirk. “Don’t ruin it by apologizing.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, then lean in. My hand finds her waist. She gasps softly, breath catching against her throat.

“You’re shaking,” I say. “But you’re not moving.”

“I don’t know what you want,” she whispers.

“You do.”

My fingers press in gently, coaxing her to turn toward me. She does, slow and cautious. Her knees now rest on either side of my thighs. Her robe slips slightly, baring one shoulder. Her skin is warm.

“No one touches what’s mine,” I say. “And tonight, you proved you’re mine completely, sweetheart.”

Her mouth trembles.

“Say it,” I command.

She hesitates. Her hands tighten around the fabric at her hips.

I grip her waist harder. “Say it.”

She swallows, voice barely audible. “I’m yours.”

“Come on, Esme. You killed a man with a vase. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a few words. Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours.”

I pull her closer.

Her breath shakes. Her thighs press against mine, and when I slide my hands up her spine, she arches into the contact. Her body remembers me. I can feel it in every shift of her weight, every tremble in her muscles.

“You want me,” I say.

She doesn’t deny it.

“You hate that you do,” I add, “but it’s there.”

Her fingers reach for my shoulders, hesitant. I let her find me. I let her hold on.

“You’re mine,” I say again. “And tonight, you proved it.”

She says it.

“I’m yours.”

The words come out quiet, shaken, but deliberate. I feel them settle between us like a weight dropped into still water. Her fingers are still clutched in my shirt, not pushing away—anchoring. Her eyes are wide, lips parted, and her chest rises with each sharp breath.

I take her by the waist and guide her back.

Her body yields without resistance, sinking into the mattress as the silk of her robe catches and pulls.

She looks up at me, her arms tense where they frame her sides.

Her legs part as I kneel between them, spreading her open with a firm press of my hand against her thigh. The robe slips from her shoulders.

Her skin glows in the low light.

I lean down and drag my mouth across her throat.

My tongue traces the edge of her pulse, then my teeth sink in hard, just beneath her jaw.

She gasps, arching into me. Her hands clutch the sheets.

I do it again, lower this time, just above the swell of her breast. I want to mark her. I want her to wear it.

Her body twists beneath mine, desperate for more.

I grip one breast, hard, my palm flat and fingers spread. Her nipple pebbles under my thumb. I roll it slowly, watching her face contort. Her hips lift off the bed.

“Kion—” she breathes.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

My mouth crushes hers before the last word finishes. I kiss her with the kind of force meant to leave bruises. My tongue claims everything she offers. Her breath catches in her throat, her legs locking tight around me as I slide my hand between them.

She’s already soaked.

I drag two fingers through her folds, slow at first, then deeper, pressing inside without warning. Her body clamps around me. She moans—loud, ragged. Her hand flies to my shoulder, nails digging in.

“God, please—”

My fingers curl, stroking her from within, thumb circling her clit with slow precision.

“Feel that?” I snarl against her throat. “No one will ever fuck you like this. No one else gets to make you fall apart. Remember that, Esme.”

I feel her start to shake. Her hips buck. She’s close. I pull my hand away, and she cries out, frustrated, trembling. I grip her hips, line myself up, and thrust forward.

She cries out again, louder this time. Her head tilts back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open. I bury myself in her in one punishing thrust.

Her walls clench around me. Her hands clutch at my arms.

I press her wrists to the mattress, pinning her down. Then I move.

Deep. Fast. Brutal.

The bed groans with each stroke. My body slams into hers, again and again. Her cries melt into moans. She cannot find her voice through the rhythm of my hips.

“Harder,” she gasps. “Please.”

I lean close, my lips brushing her ear. “What was that?”

“Harder, Kion, please—”

I slam into her harder. Her whole body jerks beneath me. “Let them all know who’s making you scream.”

She screams, voice sharp and breathless. Her climax hits fast. I feel it ripple through her—tight, pulsing. Her body seizes around me.

I ride her through it, watching her fall apart.

Her thighs tighten around me. Her nails rake down my arms, leaving raw trails in their wake. Her eyes flutter open, dazed and wet, lips trembling as if trying to speak.

I do not ease the pressure. I grab her chin and force her to meet my gaze. “Again,” I say.

She whimpers, body already overstimulated. “Kion, seriously?”

My hand slips between us again. I find her clit with my thumb and circle it hard, relentless. Her moans break apart, scattered by the force of her second climax barreling through her too fast to stop.

She arches beneath me, mouth falling open in a silent cry. Her inner muscles contract violently, milking me, begging me to give in.

I groan through clenched teeth, my control fraying at the edges.

“You want it all? Say it.”

She barely manages the words. “I want it. All of you.”

That’s all it takes.

I drive in one last time, burying myself to the hilt, and release with a growl. Heat spills into her. Her hands cling to my back like she needs it to breathe.

We stay that way for a moment, joined and breathless.

She is wrecked beneath me, limbs slack, throat mottled with bruises and kisses. Her hair is soaked with sweat. Her mouth is pink and swollen.

I lower myself over her, breath heavy against her ear.

“You’re mine, Esme. Remember that.”

She doesn’t answer with words, but the way she sighs and surrenders into me says enough.