Page 17 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The call comes just after midnight.

I’m on my way home, climbing into the car and already rattling off instructions to the driver. Yuri’s name flashes on my phone. I answer before the second ring.

“She collapsed.”

Those two words tear something loose in my chest.

I don’t ask questions, because I’m already moving.

The drive is a blur of headlights and sirens.

One of my men tries to speak—something about details, vitals, who called the doctor, but I tune him out.

I sit in the back seat with my hands clenched into fists and my jaw locked tight.

My heart beats like a war drum in my chest. The taste in my mouth is ash.

She was fine. She was in my house. Safe. Under guard. Under my control.

Yet she collapsed.

I don’t remember stepping out of the car when we reach the hospital. I don’t remember the automatic doors parting or the sharp scent of antiseptic hitting the back of my throat.

I remember the voices trying to stop me.

“Sir, you can’t go in there—”

“Wait, we need to check—”

I shove past them. A nurse tries to block my path. She’s too small. I don’t slow. My shoulder clips hers, hard enough that she stumbles. My men catch her before she hits the floor.

I don’t apologize.

I throw open the door at the end of the corridor, prepared to see her broken—pale, unconscious, tubes in her arms, her skin too still and too quiet.

Instead, I find her awake and sitting upright.

Wrapped in a hospital gown, her face pale but steady, her hair pulled back. There are faint lines of exhaustion around her mouth. Her skin is colorless. Her lips chapped, but she is alert. Breathing.

The ultrasound machine hums beside her. The doctor stands near the screen, moving a probe slowly over her belly with steady hands.

The moment stops me. Everything else—the noise, the movement, the anger—drains away.

My eyes fixate on the screen, which is flickering black and white. Grainy shapes shifting.

The doctor glances at me, startled but silent. He knows who I am. He says nothing. Just steps back, leaving room.

Esme turns her head, and our eyes meet. She looks like she wants to speak, but can’t.

I cross the room in three strides. My hand moves without thought. I reach for hers. My fingers curl over hers, strong, firm, anchoring.

She flinches—just slightly—but she doesn’t pull away.

The gel on her stomach glistens under the fluorescent lights. The screen continues to flicker with soft movements. The shape is small.

My thumb brushes over her knuckles.

The pressure in my chest expands into something deeper. Heavier. The sight of her, upright and steady, the hum of the machine, the quiet sound of a heartbeat I didn’t know I was listening for—it locks something into place.

I stare at that screen as though I can memorize every flicker, as though if I watch long enough, nothing will touch her again. Nothing will take what I see now.

The doctor’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re pregnant.”

The words settle in the air with a finality that grips my spine. For a moment, I hear nothing else. The hum of machines, the low shuffle of movement behind me, the muted rustle of Esme’s gown against the table, all of it fades beneath that single truth.

Pregnant.

Everything narrows.

I stare at the monitor, at the grainy image pulsing with a flicker that holds more weight than a bullet ever has. My hand tightens around hers. I feel the tremor in her fingers. I don’t let go.

She doesn’t pull away.

My heart kicks hard in my chest, not with fear. Not even with surprise. It’s something heavier. A violent kind of pride. Possession, yes—but layered now with something that claws deeper. This isn’t strategy. It isn’t a shield or a power play.

This is her, and something of me inside her.

I glance down at her face. Her lips are parted, brows drawn.

Her other hand rests at her stomach, fingers splayed as if she’s trying to hold on to something fragile.

I see the panic there, quiet and restrained, but I also see wonder.

She looks at the screen like she doesn’t know whether to cry or breathe.

The doctor clears his throat. He speaks again, giving dates, estimates, instructions I don’t register. He sounds too far away. All that matters is the faint beat on the screen and the pale flush in Esme’s cheeks.

She’s carrying my child.

Something sharp and steady roots in my chest. A hunger I don’t name, but one I recognize. It’s not enough to have her bound to me by vows, or even by fear. This changes everything. This cements what I already claimed.

The rest of the appointment passes without incident, but nothing about it feels quiet. Not to me.

The doctor moves methodically, wiping the gel from Esme’s belly and speaking in a tone that tries too hard to sound routine.

His words fade into the background, muffled by the pressure building behind my ribs.

I know what he’s saying: the baby is early, but healthy.

The nausea is normal. She needs rest. Hydration. Low stress.

The nurse hands over a prescription, something to settle her stomach.

A small white bag, instructions folded inside.

Esme doesn’t reach for it. I take it instead.

My fingers are steadier than hers. She still sits upright on the exam table, legs crossed tightly at the ankles, hands resting in her lap.

Her spine holds straight, but I can see the weight of it all pressing into her shoulders.

“She can be discharged,” the doctor says. “Vitals are strong. Bloodwork looks good. Bring her back in a week.”

I nod, not speaking.

Esme slides down carefully from the table.

She’s back in her own clothes now—jeans, a light sweater, the shawl she had on when she collapsed.

Her movements are slow, cautious, but she doesn’t ask for help.

That stubborn streak again. I watch her pick up her bag and adjust it over one shoulder.

Her hand brushes over her abdomen once—subtle, but not unnoticed.

I hold the door open.

She walks through it without looking at me.

Outside, the hall is quiet. A nurse offers a smile we don’t return. I lead us toward the elevator, keeping close but not touching her. Not here. Not with the sharp edge still curling under my skin. Not with the need I’m holding tight behind my teeth.

The elevator doors slide open. We step inside. It’s only the two of us.

She exhales softly, shoulders sinking against the wall.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “How do you feel?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her voice is rough when it comes. “Like everything’s changed.”

It has.

I reach for her hand again, curl my fingers around hers. She lets me.

Outside, one of my men is already waiting by the curb. The car is parked exactly where it should be. The back door opens without a word. Esme moves to climb in, but I pause her with a hand at her elbow.

Her eyes lift to mine.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say.

Her brows furrow. “Take care of what?”

“All of it.”

I help her into the car.

Inside, the world is dim again—quiet, tinted by city lights that slide over the glass. She leans back against the seat, her hand resting lightly at her abdomen. She doesn’t speak. Her eyes drift out the window. I watch her reflection in the glass, the curve of her cheek, the tension in her jaw.

“I didn’t expect this,” she murmurs.

“Well, we didn’t exactly plan for it,” I say.

She doesn’t reply.

The prescription bag crinkles softly as I set it between us. She glances at it, then looks away.

“You didn’t seem surprised,” she says finally.

“I’m not.”

That earns me a look—something unreadable flickering in her expression. “You knew?”

“I had a feeling, that’s all. Bratva instincts are something else.” There’s pride in my voice, and also truth.

She frowns, searching for something in my face. “So what, you’re happy?”

I shrug, letting her see the truth. “Happy’s not the word. Satisfied, maybe. Proud. You’re mine, and now so is this.” My hand moves to her stomach—deliberate, a public claim even in private.

None of those things translate easily into language she wants to hear.

I reach out again, hand sliding over hers, then lower to rest gently over the flat of her stomach. I feel her tense beneath the pressure.

She’s scared of how much she feels. Of what this means. Of how quickly the ground is shifting beneath her.

I can work with that.

I hold her hand the rest of the drive, and neither of us says another word.

As we ride, I rest one hand on Esme’s thigh.

She hasn’t said much since we left the hospital.

Just nodded when the doctor handed over her discharge papers, then went quiet again once we hit the highway.

The papers are folded tight in her lap, but her fingers keep tugging at the edge like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it.

She stares out the window. Head turned, eyes vacant, watching the city lights blur past. I let her have the silence. She needs it, I think. Needs time to settle from the hell of the past twenty-four hours.

Then, right as we turn onto the private drive that leads up to the house, she speaks.

“I always told myself I’d have a real family.”

Her voice is soft. A little too steady.

I glance over. She still hasn’t looked at me.

“I used to draw it,” she says. “When I was a kid. I’d sketch this little house with a dog out front, two parents, a kid at the kitchen table.

I imagined them laughing. Eating together.

That was my version of luxury. Not money.

Not clothes. Just… love. People who actually wanted to be around each other. ”

I don’t interrupt. My grip tightens slightly on the door handle, but I keep my tone even. “You didn’t have that?”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Not even close. My parents barely tolerated each other. I don’t remember either of them ever hugging me, and when they finally left, it was like…

I disappeared. The orphanage wasn’t much better.

You learned real quick how to stay quiet.

How to make yourself small so you didn’t bother anyone. ”

We slow at the gate. The guards wave us through without question. The house looms ahead, lit warm and gold against the night, but Esme looks like she’s a thousand miles from it.

“I used to think if I just worked hard enough, did everything right, I could build the opposite of what I grew up with. I wanted to be the kind of mom who left notes in lunchboxes, who made pancakes on Sundays, who didn’t make her kid wonder if they were a burden.”

Her hands are clenched in her lap now.

“What if I can’t do it?” she says. “What if all I end up doing is screwing them up the same way? What if I want it so badly I end up ruining it?”

We park. Kill the engine. I turn to her fully.

“Look at me, Esme. You’re not your parents, and you’re sure as hell not alone. Our kid’s going to grow up knowing exactly who they belong to. They’ll never want for anything. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her eyes flick to mine, hesitant.

“Our kid,” I say, “will grow up in a house built like a fortress. They’ll eat better than most diplomats. Wear tailored clothes. They’ll be guarded, protected, educated, and more than that, they’ll be wanted.”

I reach over to cover her hand with mine, dip low to brush my lips across her ear.

“They’ll have you,” I say. “And they’ll have me. They’ll be Sharov blood. That means royalty, Esme. That means safety. It means every inch of this fucked-up empire bows before them.”

Her bottom lip trembles, but she bites it hard.

I lean in just a little closer. My voice drops. “No one touches what’s mine. That includes you. That includes them. I don’t care what it takes. I’ll carve out a world where they never feel what you felt growing up.”

She finally nods.

It’s small. But it’s enough.

***

Back at the house, Yuri’s already waiting in the front hall.

“Get the prescription filled,” I tell him. “Use our guy. I want it delivered direct, no pharmacy.”

Yuri nods without question. “Understood.”

He disappears, as usual.

Esme leans against the banister, one hand still resting low on her stomach. She looks tired. Not fragile, but stretched thin. She kicks off her shoes and starts toward the stairs.

“Upstairs, now,” I say—no room for argument. “Doctor’s orders, and mine. Don’t make me come carry you.”

She doesn’t argue. Just nods, slow and quiet, and disappears up the staircase.

I wait until I hear the door shut before I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding since the ER.

***

She lasts twenty minutes.

I find her in the living room, curled up on the oversized armchair, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she’s trying to disappear into herself. She’s thumbing through a book, eyes unfocused.

I lean in the doorway, arms folded casually, lazy expression on my face. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

She doesn’t look up. “I tried. Got bored.”

“Your solution was to ignore your doctor and park yourself in the most inconvenient part of the house?”

“Wouldn’t call it inconvenient,” she says. “It’s warm, and the fire’s nice.”

She finally glances over. There’s something cheeky in her smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You gonna carry me back?”

I walk toward her slowly, hook an arm around her waist. “If I have to.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You think I won’t?”

She tilts her head, watching me like she’s measuring the odds. “I’m still sore. You wouldn’t risk it.”

“I’d carry you through fire,” I joke, “and not flinch once. Except maybe because of the third-degree burns.”

Her breath catches. I see the shift in her expression, the flicker of surprise, the pause where she doesn’t know what to do with what I’ve said.

She reaches for my hand instead. Her fingers slip into mine, cold but steady.

“I’m okay,” she says softly. “I just… didn’t want to be alone in that room yet.”

I nod once. I don’t push. I sit down beside her, pulling her in against my side.

She fits there too easily. Like she belongs.

The flames crackle low in the fireplace. The rest of the house stays silent.

Eventually, her head drops to my shoulder. Her breathing evens out. She sleeps like that, curled against me, hoodie sleeve tangled in my hand.

I stay right where I am.