Page 16 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The days pass slowly after that night.

I try not to think about it, about the way Kion looked at me after I swung the vase, after he stepped out of the shadows and saw everything.

The way he kissed me later, touched me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.

He did not speak about it afterward. He didn’t need to.

The memory stays rooted in me like a thorn I cannot pull free.

He’s been gone for the past three days.

No explanation. No warning. There’s silence and locked doors and the occasional murmur of his men in the halls. The mansion feels different without him. It’s not peaceful, but emptier. Like the rooms themselves are holding their breath.

I find myself glancing at the door more often than I want to admit.

The sound of footsteps down the corridor makes me tense, then feel immediately ashamed.

I tell myself it’s fear. Of course it is.

What else could it be? There’s a hollow weight in my chest, the kind that builds when someone you don’t want to miss starts to matter.

I hate that. I hate that he is inside my thoughts like this.

That I crave the danger of his gaze more than the safety of his absence.

Pathetic.

I try to distract myself.

The maids come and go, quiet as ever. They clean the rooms, change the linens, bring meals I barely touch.

Breakfast is a blur. Lunch, untouched. Dinner, cold by the time I remember it’s there.

The routine is always the same. Their faces don’t change.

Their eyes don’t linger. I know they’re watching.

I can feel it in the way they pause in the doorway, waiting for me to speak first.

I flip through one of the books Kion gave me.

It’s an edition I once borrowed from my hometown’s library—same cover, same weight, even the same crease on the back page.

I want to lose myself in it. I want to focus on anything other than the ache in my body, the silence in the hall, and the memory of Kion’s voice when he told me I was his.

The words blur.

My head aches. My temples pulse dully. I close the book, rest it beside me, and press my palm to my forehead.

I haven’t eaten properly since yesterday.

The thought crosses my mind that maybe it’s just stress. Or something I ate. I remember the tray of fruit from the night before, how the grapes had tasted off, how my stomach twisted afterward. I brush it off. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.

Still, the nausea lingers.

I spend most of the morning in bed, curled beneath the blanket, eyes shut tight even though I’m not asleep. When the maid returns with a light lunch, I shake my head before she can even set it down.

“I’m not hungry,” I say.

Her expression flickers, but she nods and leaves without comment.

The silence returns.

I shift, trying to find comfort in the soft sheets, but my body won’t settle. My skin feels too warm. My stomach churns. The thought of food makes my throat tighten. The headache sharpens, then dulls again.

I breathe in slowly. I stare at the ceiling for a long time.

When I finally sit up, the room spins, just slightly. I close my eyes until it stops, then pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead against them. The silk robe clings to my skin, sticky with sweat.

I whisper to myself, quiet and strained. “You’re fine. It’s just the stress and the pressure.”

It doesn’t help, because my body says otherwise.

***

That evening, I curl into the blankets.

The sheets are soft, freshly changed, scented faintly with something floral. The pillows are fluffed, the lights dimmed. Everything is perfect in that detached, sterile way this place has perfected, but nothing feels right.

My body won’t settle. I shift beneath the covers again and again, folding and unfolding my legs, trying to get comfortable. The silk of my nightdress sticks to my thighs, clinging where I want space, slipping where I want stillness. My skin feels too warm, like the fever of a thought I cannot name.

My face is hot. My arms ache in that dull, empty way that follows tension. My chest is tight—not from pain, but from something heavier. Something deeper. I place a hand there, palm flat, and try to breathe.

It doesn’t help.

There’s a weight low in my belly, not sharp, not sick, just… unfamiliar. A pull. A tension. I don’t know what it is, only that it keeps growing. I curl tighter beneath the blankets, bringing my knees up and pressing both hands against my middle.

The panic doesn’t hit all at once. It builds slowly, like water rising through the floorboards.

A quiet, creeping dread. I tell myself it’s nothing.

That I’m tired. That I’m spiraling. I have every reason to be tired.

I haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept properly.

I haven’t spoken to anyone except the maids in days.

The blankets feel too heavy. The room feels too quiet. I press my hands harder against my stomach and close my eyes. I want to be calm. I want to pretend this is normal. But the weight inside me won’t let me.

I breathe in, shallow and slow.

I lie there, curled tight, until the weight in my chest becomes too much to bear. The room is suffocating. The air feels thick, unmoving. Each breath tastes stale, like silk and stillness and memory.

I can’t stay here.

The need for movement claws at my skin, so I force myself upright.

The effort makes me dizzy, but I grit my teeth and push through it.

My nightdress falls around my knees in loose folds.

I grab a shawl from the end of the bed—soft cashmere, ivory, barely touched—and wrap it around my shoulders with unsteady fingers.

The mirror catches my reflection as I pass, and I hesitate.

I look pale. Not just tired, but washed out. My cheeks are colorless. My lips dry. My eyes, usually so sharp in their suspicion, seem almost glassy. I blink once. Twice. It doesn’t help.

Still, I walk to the door.

The hallway is quiet. A few maids move down the corridor at the far end, tending to whatever endless tasks keep this house running. They glance at me, surprised to see me up. I never leave the room at night. They know that.

I don’t speak to them. I just walk past, shawl pulled tight across my chest. I head toward the garden doors at the back of the hall. I need air. I need the cold. I need anything other than the press of that bed and the ache in my stomach and the silence that won’t stop humming in my ears.

The handle is cool in my palm.

I open the door slowly.

The night greets me with sharp brightness. Too bright. The moonlight is silver and loud, reflecting off the stone and glass like a mirror held too close. I blink against it. My vision swims.

Something shifts in my stomach. Not pain. Pressure. My fingers tighten on the doorframe.

I take one step out onto the terrace. The breeze brushes my skin. It’s cooler than I expected. My legs feel strange beneath me, too light and too heavy at the same time. The scent of flowers, usually calming, turns my stomach.

“Mrs. Sharov?” a voice asks gently behind me.

I don’t turn. I don’t want to see the concern on her face. “I’m fine,” I say, or try to. It comes out hoarse. “Just a headache.”

The steps behind me pause. “Do you need the doctor?”

“No,” I mutter, waving one hand weakly, “I just need—”

The words fall apart. The world tilts.

I feel the stone disappear beneath my feet. The brightness explodes behind my eyes. I sway once, twice. The last thing I see is the edge of the garden and the woman’s face twisting in alarm.

Then nothing.

I’m not sure how long it’s been when voices wake me up.

They’re muffled at first, like I’m underwater. Then sharper. Frantic. I feel movement—footsteps around me, hands on my arms. Someone touches my face. Cool fingers press against my neck. My eyes flutter open, but the light above me is too bright. It burns.

“Mrs. Sharov, can you hear me?”

The voice is female. Familiar. One of the maids?

My lips part, but no sound comes out. My throat is too dry. My chest feels heavy. I blink slowly, trying to understand where I am.

The ceiling sways.

I see flashes of white: aprons, gloves, sleeves moving too fast. One woman kneels beside me, frowning. Another leans over my shoulder, whispering something urgent. Their hands flutter between my wrist and the pulse at my neck, checking, counting.

“She’s burning up.”

“She needs a doctor now.”

“Go. Call him, and get Mr. Sharov. Tell him she collapsed.”

The name lands like a bell in my fogged mind.

Kion. They’re calling for Kion.

I try to lift my hand. It twitches, barely. One of the maids notices and squeezes my fingers gently.

“You’re safe,” she murmurs. “Just stay with us.”

I want to ask what happened. I want to say I’m fine, that this is nothing. But my mouth won’t cooperate. My body won’t listen.

The edges of my vision pull tight. The floor sways again.

Before I can piece together the rest of the voices or the rush of footsteps echoing down the hall, the darkness takes me under again.