Page 20 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

I know something’s wrong before the call connects.

Yuri’s voice is tight. “Esme went off-grid. Left the perimeter on foot. We’re tracing her phone now—last ping’s in the industrial zone.”

I’m already moving. I don’t stop to ask why she left. Don’t waste breath demanding why no one stopped her. I don’t give a fuck about the excuses.

She’s missing; that’s all I need to know.

I take the car myself. Engine roaring, tires screaming across asphalt. The streets blur past. Red lights mean nothing. Sirens howl in the distance, but none of them are coming for me.

They should be.

My mind spins as I drive, but my hands stay steady. I know that part of the city—crumbling brick, blind alleys, buildings abandoned but never empty. It’s where men like Clarke crawl out of their graves for one last shot at vengeance.

If he’s touched her, so much as breathed near her… he’s already dead.

I pull up two blocks from the last location ping. I kill the lights and step out, eyes scanning. Yuri’s already on foot, flanking. Another man waits near the alley entrance, giving me a single nod. No movement since she ran.

I see the scuff marks. I see the trail.

Time to kill.

***

The first body I find is standing outside the stairwell, facing the wrong direction. He doesn’t hear me coming, doesn’t even see me until my blade opens his throat.

He gurgles once. Slumps.

I keep moving.

I hear shouting above. Metal groaning. Then her voice—sharp and ragged, a scream cut short.

I don’t wait, taking the steps three at a time. The door at the rooftop is already ajar, one hinge half torn. I push it open slowly.

She’s cornered.

Esme’s back is to the far wall, hands up, blood at her temple. Damien Clarke stands in front of her, flanked by two more men. One’s got a bat. The other, a gun. But neither is paying attention to anything but her.

That’s their mistake.

The man with the gun doesn’t have time to aim before I’m on him. One hard twist and the weapon’s mine. I don’t shoot him.

I drive the butt into his temple. Watch him drop. He’s not even worth the bullet, not worth the theatrics or the effort, even to me.

The one with the bat turns—too slow. He swings. I catch it on my forearm—pain snaps white, but I welcome it. It reminds me what I’m here for. Reminds me I’m alive. He isn’t for much longer.

He doesn’t get a second chance. My fist finds his throat, then his ribs, then his jaw. I feel bone snap beneath my knuckles. I leave him on the ground, gasping like a fish out of water.

Then it’s just Clarke. He’s already retreating a step. Smart.

Not smart enough.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he says, voice low, measured.

I see Esme behind him, shaking, pale, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach.

I nearly lose control.

Clarke draws a knife. I watch him grip it wrong. He’s angry. Unfocused.

I’m not.

I take him to the ground in one clean motion. The blade slices through my side, shallow, but I don’t stop. My knee hits his chest. I press the full weight of my body down until I hear ribs give.

His knife skitters across the rooftop.

“Looking for the big bad wolf, Clarke? Here I am. Say hello.”

He claws at my arms. Fails.

“You touched my wife.”

He gurgles something. I don’t care what it is.

“You scared her.”

That’s the part that matters.

I drive my elbow down into his face. Once. Twice. Again. Blood sprays. His body jerks. I don’t stop until I feel nothing beneath me but shattered bone and ruin.

Then I stand.

Esme hasn’t moved. She’s still against the wall, eyes wide, hands trembling.

She’s safe, but only just.

She tries to speak, but her breath hitches.

“Did he touch you?” I ask, voice rough.

She shakes her head. “He cornered me. Said—said I caused Aaron’s death.”

I cup her face, gently. Her skin is cold. Her eyes are full of fear and something else—something sharp and cracking.

“He can say what he likes. He won’t be saying anything else. Not after tonight.”

She nods. A tear slips down her cheek.

I take off my coat and wrap it around her. Carefully. Slowly. The blood on my hands stains the fabric, but I don’t care.

Yuri appears at the stairwell, gun raised, breathing hard.

“Clear,” I say.

He nods and steps back.

I guide Esme toward the exit, one arm firm around her waist. She stumbles once. I steady her.

I walk Esme down the steps, shielding her body with mine. She doesn’t speak. Her breathing stays shallow, chest rising too fast beneath my coat. I can feel it—her trembling. Not just from the cold. From what nearly happened. From what could have.

Yuri’s already pulled the car around. He gets out silently and opens the back door, then moves to the front and slides behind the wheel. I lower Esme into the seat, then slide in beside her. She curls in, knees tucked up, hands still hidden in the coat’s sleeves.

I pull the door shut. The locks click. The engine hums.

We start to move.

Her voice breaks the silence. Quiet. Unsteady. “I didn’t think I was going to get away.”

My chest tightens. I shift closer. Pull her into me, one arm slung around her shoulders, my hand rubbing slow circles across her back.

“I saw him,” she says. “That man, Damien. He said it was my fault. That I caused Aaron’s death.”

“You didn’t.”

“I kept thinking—” She swallows. “What if he’s right? What if this is what happens now, because I stayed?”

I tilt her face up gently, fingers under her chin. Her eyes are glassy. Wet. “You didn’t cause anything,” I say. “That blood is on his hands. Not yours.”

“But he found me. I thought—Kion, I thought he was going to kill me, and then when I said I was pregnant, he laughed.” Her voice catches. “Like it didn’t matter.”

My jaw tightens. I drag in a breath, hold it, then let it out slowly so I don’t shatter something.

“I’ll kill anyone who looks at you that way again,” I say.

“I was so scared,” she whispers. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to die like that. In some alley. Alone.”

“You weren’t alone.” I tighten my hold on her. “I will always come for you.”

She leans into my chest, head tucked beneath my chin. Her scent is faint—vanilla and salt and something I can’t name. I brush my hand over the back of her head, threading my fingers gently through her hair.

“Did you really know where I was?” she asks, voice softer now.

“I did.”

She nods against my chest. “Good.”

We stay like that the rest of the drive. Quiet. Wrapped around each other. The city passes in shadows. Streetlights flicker over her face every time we stop, but I don’t let go.

Not for a second.

When we reach the estate, Yuri parks in front of the doors. I don’t wait for anyone else. I open the door and lift her out of the car.

She doesn’t protest. Her arms go around my neck, and her head rests against my shoulder like she’s given up trying to be strong for now.

Inside, the staff see the blood on my hands, the bruises on my face, and they scatter. Good. Let them remember what happens to anyone who threatens a Sharov. I carry her through the house like a trophy, a promise, a warning.

In the en suite, I lower her to the bathroom stool gently and turn on the tap. Hot water rushes into the tub. Steam begins to rise.

She watches with a dazed sort of calm. Like she’s not quite sure she’s safe yet.

“I can do this,” she murmurs as I reach for the buttons of her coat.

“I know you can,” I say, undoing them anyway.

“I mean it. I’m not broken.”

“I know.” Now isn’t the time for jokes, so I keep quiet.

She looks up at me. “But I need help tonight.”

I nod. “I’m here.”

I help her out of the coat, then the rest of her clothes. I don’t rush. Don’t leer. I don’t want anything from her except to see her whole again. She shivers when I peel off her shirt, and I pause when I see the bruise blooming over her side.

My hands curl into fists. “I’m going to make sure no one ever gets close to you again,” I promise, low and rough.

“I believe you,” she whispers.

I help her into the bath, one hand on her arm, the other keeping her steady. She lowers herself into the water with a soft sigh, body finally relaxing.

I kneel beside the tub and soak the sponge, run it gently over her shoulders. She leans forward so I can reach her back.

Her voice is barely audible.

“Will you… stay with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

I reach for the wide-toothed comb on the counter. She turns slowly, wet hair curling over her collarbones.

I start at the ends. Work my way up. She’s always had soft hair. Thick, dark, silky when wet. Each knot I work through makes her flinch a little less.

“I used to do this for my sister,” I murmur. “When she was little. After our parents died, she wouldn’t let anyone else touch her hair.”

Esme tilts her head, surprise in her eyes.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“She died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

She’s quiet a moment.

“You’re gentle,” she says softly.

Only with you. The urge to make a joke rises in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.

I finish the last tangle and smooth her hair back behind her ear. She turns her face slightly into my hand.

“Thank you,” she says.

Her voice is tired, but steady. No more shaking.

After the bath, I dry her slowly. She doesn’t speak much—just lets me move, lets me help. When I lift the silk pajama shirt over her arms, she leans into me for balance. The fabric is pale champagne, smooth against her skin. She looks like something untouchable in it. Something delicate.

I button each one with steady fingers, from her sternum to her collarbone.

She sits at the edge of the bed once I’m done, hair damp and falling in waves down her back, the combed strands already beginning to curl again at the ends.

I move across the room and crouch by the fireplace, strike a match. The logs catch fast, flames curling up in steady, hungry licks. Light spills across the walls, warm and amber. The shadows retreat.

“You should rest,” I say as I stand, brushing my hands together.

She shakes her head. “I can’t. I’m too… wired.”

I walk back toward her. “That’s natural.”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “It doesn’t feel natural. It feels like every time I close my eyes, I see him again. That alley. That knife. The way he looked at me.”

I crouch in front of her, hands resting lightly on her knees.

“He’s gone,” I say. “He’ll never touch you again.”

“I know,” she whispers. “But my body doesn’t know yet. My brain keeps trying to convince me I’m still in that moment.”

“That’s because you survived something most women can’t imagine.” I grin and peck her forehead. “My strong, good girl.”

She breathes out slowly.

I reach up and push her damp hair behind her ears. Her skin is still a little pink from the heat of the bath. She smells clean: soft soap and something warm I can’t name.

“You don’t have to sleep,” I say. “Just lie down. Let yourself be for a while. I’ll sit right here.”

She hesitates, then nods.

I rise and help her to the pillows. She curls on her side, facing the fire. I pull the blanket up over her legs and sit beside her on the mattress.

“I can’t believe I ended up here,” she says, voice drowsy now. “With you. Like this.”

“Regret it?” I ask quietly.

She shakes her head. “No. I think… I’m still figuring out what it means.”

I lean in and kiss her temple.

“I’ll wait as long as you need,” I murmur. “Just don’t ever try to go through anything like this without me again.”

She blinks up at me. “I didn’t want you to see me that scared.”

“I want to see you scared,” I say, brushing her cheek. “So I know what needs destroying.”

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Then she settles deeper into the pillow.

The fire crackles softly, and for the first time tonight, she closes her eyes.