Page 18 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

I’m not sure what surprises me more: the fact that Talia’s already waiting when I arrive, or that she hasn’t changed at all.

She’s sitting at the far end of the café, elbow propped on the small round table, fingers wrapped around a mug like it’s keeping her alive.

Her hair’s in its usual messy bun, curls tumbling free in soft spirals, and she’s still wearing that old navy sweatshirt she used to swear she’d burn.

The same wide grin spreads across her face the second she sees me.

“Esme,” she says, dragging out the vowels with mock drama. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

I laugh as I walk over, my boots thudding softly against the tile floor. It’s the first real laugh I’ve let myself have in what feels like forever.

“Talia Rivers,” I reply. “Still the most dramatic person in any room, I see.”

She stands and pulls me into a tight hug, arms wrapping around me like she hasn’t seen me in years. Which, I guess, is almost true. It’s been eight months since I left. Since everything changed.

“Look at you,” she says, pulling back slightly but keeping her hands on my shoulders. “You look like you live in a castle and cry into silk pillowcases.”

I snort. “Try a fortress and don’t cry unless I want people to think I’m weak.”

Her smile falters for half a second. Just a blink. Then she nods, and we sit.

The café is small and tucked into a quiet corner of the city—one of those places that smells like vanilla syrup and burned espresso.

The lights are dim, the tables mismatched.

The kind of place that would’ve been our haunt back in school, back when a caramel latte and a shared slice of cake were all we needed to feel like queens.

She orders another coffee. I stick to tea. Caffeine’s off-limits now.

I rest my hand over my stomach without thinking.

For a little while, it’s easy. We slip into stories about undergrad and our mutual hatred for that one ethics professor who wore his socks inside out.

She tells me about her journalism classes, the internship from hell, a guy she’s maybe sort of dating but will probably ghost if he chews with his mouth open again.

I let her talk. I let myself laugh.

It feels good. Like I’m still me. Like I haven’t been hollowed out and filled with something sharp-edged and breakable.

“You seem good,” she says after a while, studying me over the rim of her mug.

“I’m… surviving.”

Talia tilts her head. “That doesn’t sound like good.”

“It’s the closest I’ve got right now.”

She nods, then glances around before leaning in slightly. “Are you safe, Esme?”

Her voice is quiet. Careful. She knows not to say names, not to ask too much. Not here.

I could lie. Tell her I’m fine. Tell her it’s complicated. Tell her I’m figuring it out, but I’m tired of lying.

“I’m pregnant,” I say.

Her eyebrows lift. “Holy shit.”

I nod. My hand goes to my stomach again.

“That’s… okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Do I need to… are we in get-the-bag-and-run mode, or—?”

“No,” I say quickly. “No bags. No running.”

Talia exhales slowly. “Okay. Good. I mean—well, not good, I guess, but—okay.”

We sit in silence for a beat. My tea has gone lukewarm. I don’t touch it.

“I’m married,” I say quietly. “He’s not a good guy, but I like him.”

She nods. Doesn’t ask questions she already knows the answers to.

“It’s not what I imagined,” I admit. “Being pregnant. I always thought it would feel… joyful. Exciting. Like I’d be glowing, you know?”

“Yeah,” she says softly.

“I’m terrified,” I whisper.

Her hand covers mine on the table.

“I don’t know how to do this, Tal,” I say. “I don’t know how to raise a baby in a world full of blood and threats and rules I don’t understand. I don’t even know who I am half the time anymore. I don’t know how to do this with him.”

Her fingers squeeze mine. She doesn’t speak, not yet.

“I thought love would be soft,” I say. “I thought it would be gentle and safe and easy. But he’s not easy. He’s… intense. Too much, sometimes. It’s like he burns, and I keep standing too close to the fire.”

“You’re still standing,” she says. “That says something.”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“Neither does anyone,” she replies. “People like to pretend, but every mom I’ve ever met is just a mess doing her best not to screw it up.”

I laugh once. It’s a little watery.

Talia gives me a look, then grabs a napkin and starts scribbling something in pen. When she slides it across the table, I frown.

It’s a to-do list:

1. Find prenatal vitamins

2. Take long naps

3. Eat something that isn’t toast

4. Don’t panic

I read it three times before smiling.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Number five is call me. Anytime.”

I nod.

We sit a while longer. I start to relax again. The air smells like cinnamon and sugar, and the chair creaks when I lean back. Talia’s telling me about her roommate’s emotional-support ferret when something tugs at my attention.

A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye.

I glance toward the window.

There’s a man across the street, leaning casually against a lamppost. Dressed plain. Too plain. Eyes shielded by sunglasses even though the sun’s long gone behind the buildings.

He doesn’t look at me, not directly, but my heart kicks anyway.

I look back to Talia. She’s still talking.

I nod, smile, say something. I think it’s coherent; but my fingers tremble slightly where they rest around the mug.

Even here, surrounded by warmth, by friendship, by laughter—I’m never really out of reach.

I try to stay in the moment. Try to keep my eyes on Talia, on her animated hands and the way she keeps shifting her mug like she’s going to sip it again, even though it’s long gone cold.

The man across the street is still there.

He’s closer now. Leaning off the post, walking slowly along the curb like he’s just another passerby.

His hands are in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched, head ducked like he’s checking his phone—but I feel it.

That prickle. Like I’m being watched even when I look away.

Now I’m not so convinced he’s one of Kion’s.

I force myself to smile again. A little wider. A little more convincing. Talia doesn’t seem to notice the tension in my jaw or the way I’ve subtly angled my body to keep the window in view.

She’s talking about something light—some article she pitched, I think. I nod along, pretending I’m with her.

Another man crosses my line of sight. This one gets into a car across the street. Black sedan. Tinted windows. It doesn’t drive off.

I tense.

Talia pauses. “Hey, are you good?”

I blink and drag my gaze back to her. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… long day.”

She smiles, but it’s a little dimmer now. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

I want to believe that. Want to pretend that we’re still just two women having a quiet coffee in a quiet corner of the city, but I can’t anymore. Not when the air outside feels off, like the temperature has dropped but no one else seems to notice.

I shift my chair, subtly angling myself further from the window.

“You want to go for a walk?” Talia offers. “Get some air? I don’t have to be anywhere.”

I shake my head. “No. I should probably get back.”

She nods slowly, like she doesn’t want to push, but she knows something’s wrong. “Okay. I can call you a car?”

“No, I’ve got one waiting.” I lie too easily now. The words slip off my tongue like silk.

When I stand, I clock the black sedan again. Still there. Engine running. The man who got in? He’s still sitting. Still hasn’t moved.

Talia hugs me tight at the door. “Text me when you get home, okay? Or wherever you’re staying. I mean it.”

“I will.”

I don’t tell her that home doesn’t feel like home. That even within the fortress of Kion’s estate, I’ve never been more aware of how fragile I am now. How much more I have to lose.

I step outside. The chill air bites at my skin, even through my coat.

The man from earlier is gone, but the car remains.

I don’t run. I don’t even pick up my pace. But my entire body is wired tight as I head down the street and round the corner. My breath hitches as soon as I’m out of view.

I call Yuri from the burner in my pocket.

“Talk,” he says immediately.

“Are your guys watching me?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Always. Problem?”

“There’s a black sedan on Third and Highland. Tinted windows. Two men I don’t recognize. One was on foot before he got in. I’ve had eyes on me since I arrived.”

“License plate?”

I didn’t catch it. I grit my teeth. “No.”

“I’ll handle it.”

With that, Yuri hangs up.

I lower the phone and stare down the sidewalk, but I don’t go back to the café. I don’t wait around for the sedan to move. Instead, I turn the corner and start walking fast.

I don’t have a plan. I just need space. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere they won’t expect me to go.

I keep my head down, crossing into a narrower street lined with tall buildings and rusted fire escapes. My boots echo off the concrete. I glance back once—twice—but no one follows. At least, not visibly.

I turn again, ducking into a narrow alley that smells faintly of damp brick and engine oil. The chill air wraps around me like a second skin. There’s a locked metal gate partway down, but I slip through the open gap beside a dumpster and hunch behind it, crouching low.

I finally stop moving, but the silence swells around me. For a moment, I think I’ve made a mistake. This was stupid. I’m alone. Hidden, yes—but alone.

The silence? It’s not comforting. It’s suffocating.

Every sound is too loud. Every creak of a distant pipe, every soft rustle of leaves or brush of wind, it all feels sharper than it should. Like the city is holding its breath.

My breathing starts to pick up.

I press a hand to my stomach—an instinct I don’t even think about anymore—and squeeze my eyes shut.

I don’t know if I’m shaking because I’m scared, or because it’s cold, or because I know I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be outside Kion’s walls. I shouldn’t be walking unguarded in the open, not now.