Page 21 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The mansion is too quiet when I wake up hours later.

I sit on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around my stomach, listening to the silence press in from every wall. No voices. No footsteps. Even the distant hum of staff moving through the halls feels muted tonight, like the house is holding its breath alongside me.

I should be resting. My body aches. There’s a sharp throb in my side, and a dull soreness in my legs that reminds me of how hard I ran, how close it was. But it’s not my body that refuses to settle—it’s everything else.

My thoughts haven’t stopped since Kion carried me through the doors.

I keep seeing Damien’s face. That smug smile. The cold certainty in his voice when he said he’d make me pay. I hear the scrape of boots behind me, the alley closing in like jaws, the sick certainty that I wasn’t going to get out.

Then I see Kion.

The way he appeared, quiet and lethal. The way his hands moved—quick, brutal, methodical. The sounds his fists made. The blood.

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. He came for me like a storm, then tucked me into bed, the gentlest I’ve ever seen him. I haven’t said a word to him since.

He didn’t ask for one. Just held me, wrapped me in warmth and silence, and made sure I ate, bathed, changed. And then he left, slipping from the bedroom sometime after I curled under the covers. I felt the space cool beside me. I didn’t stop him.

Now, as the moon rises and the fire in the hearth dims, I find I can’t sit still any longer.

I need to find him.

I move barefoot down the hall. The floor is warm beneath my soles, but my hands are cold. I wrap them into the sleeves of my robe as I pass the closed doors and quiet wings of the estate, until I reach the one door I’ve never walked through without an invitation.

The room is dark when I push the door ajar, the lights off, but the glass balcony doors are open wide. A breeze stirs the curtains, and the faint scent of smoke lingers in the air.

He’s outside. Shirtless.

The glow of a cigarette ember flares in his hand, casting momentary light across the edge of his jaw.

The rest of him is silvered in moonlight—his chest broad, legs stretched out, bare feet propped against the railing.

His scars are more visible like this. Not softened by shadow, not hidden by clothes.

They mark him in jagged lines and deep slashes, across ribs and shoulder and spine.

He doesn’t look back, but the corner of his mouth twitches—the kind of half smirk that always means he’s two steps ahead of me.

I pause behind him, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish into the air. Then I step forward. I reach out slowly, almost without thinking, and touch one of the longer scars across his ribs. It’s old, rough beneath my fingers. He flinches—just once—but he doesn’t pull away.

My hand stays there.

This is the first time he doesn’t feel like something untouchable.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Neither do I.

He turns his head, profile all sharp lines and new shadows. “Silence was the only thing we were ever allowed to keep. Love came in fists—if it came at all. I got more bruises than birthday cakes. Didn’t do much for my sense of humor, but I made up for it later.”

My fingers still.

“I broke into a stash house. Was trying to prove something to someone who’s already dead.” His voice is dry. Tired. “Didn’t make it five minutes before I took a knife to the ribs.”

I move my hand gently. Trace another one across his shoulder blade.

“That?”

“Belt. From my father.”

I press my lips together.

He turns his head slightly. His profile is sharp in the moonlight, but softer somehow. Less carved from steel.

“I grew up in a house where silence was survival. Where love came in fists, if it came at all. My mother tried to protect us, but she was small. Sick. He broke her down before I ever really knew her.”

“Kion—”

He holds up a hand, not to stop me—just to keep going.

“My brother was older. Stronger. He kept me alive. Taught me where to hide, how to breathe without making noise.” A pause. “The day he died, I was fourteen. He tried to take a beating meant for me. Took it straight to the chest. Didn’t get up after.”

I feel something twist deep in my stomach.

“I killed the man who did it,” he says. “First time I ever held a gun. My hands shook so bad I dropped it twice, but I got the shot off. That was enough.”

I step closer. Place my palm flat against his chest, just above his heart. It’s beating steady beneath my skin.

“You were still a child,” I whisper.

“There are no children where I come from. Only survivors.”

The cigarette burns down to the filter. He stubs it out in the tray beside him but doesn’t move otherwise. He’s too still. Too quiet.

I slide into the chair beside him and take his hand, and he looks at it like he’s not sure he deserves it.

“You scare me sometimes,” I admit. “When you fight, when you lose yourself in it… you look like someone else. Like something built for war.”

He nods once. Doesn’t deny it.

“But tonight, when I thought I was going to die… all I could think was you’ll come for me. Not someone. Not help. You.”

His jaw flexes. He looks down at our joined hands.

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh, but too bitter. “Love isn’t exactly in the Bratva training manual. Protection, violence, pride? Those I can promise. Normality’s overrated, anyway.”

“You don’t have to be normal,” I say. “You just have to stay.”

He looks at me then, really looks, and for the first time, there’s nothing guarded in his eyes.

His hand rests beneath mine, heavy and still. He hasn’t moved since I touched him. Hasn’t spoken since I said stay.

I shift slightly in my seat and lift my hand from his, reaching instead for his jaw. My fingers brush along the coarse edge of his stubble. He stiffens for a second, like touch still surprises him, like he doesn’t trust softness unless it comes with a blade.

I guide his face toward mine. His eyes meet mine again—uncertain, wary, wanting, and then I kiss him.

His lips part under mine, slow and warm. He kisses me back with a hesitation I’ve never felt from him before—like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already fragile. The tension between us hums, not from fear, but from something deeper. Something real.

When I pull back, his eyes are darker, but not cold.

“I’m not promising anything,” I say softly. “Not tonight. Not forever.”

His breath catches.

“But I’m not running.”

That’s all I can give right now, and somehow… it’s enough.

I rise, still holding his hand, and lead him back inside. He follows without a word.

The air inside his bedroom is warm, filled with the faint scent of smoke and fire. The moonlight filters through the curtains, casting soft lines across the floor.

I stop near the bed and turn to face him.

His eyes search mine.

I tug gently at his waistband. “Come here.”

He cups my jaw like he’s still afraid I’ll vanish. His thumb brushes across my cheek, then down to my lips. There’s no command in the gesture, no demand. Only reverence.

I pull him down to kiss me again, slower this time, deeper. My fingers find the back of his neck, the edge of his hair. I sink into him, tasting ash and heat and something that might be longing.

He lifts me easily, almost smug, and sets me on the bed like I’m a prize he’s won in front of the whole world. His mouth curves into a small, dangerous smile. “I could get used to this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

His body settles over mine, weight braced on his forearms so he never crushes me, never presses too hard. His mouth trails kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, pausing at the pulse point that thunders against his lips.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispers.

“I know.”

His hands are careful as he undoes the ties of my robe. The silk parts, sliding open. He doesn’t rush. His palms glide over my skin with a slowness that makes me ache. He kisses the curve of my breast, the soft rise of my stomach, each motion slow and deliberate.

I tangle my fingers in his hair and arch beneath him, wanting more, but still feeling the ghost of fear. He senses it—pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.

“We don’t have to,” he says.

“I want to.”

He smiles once, then bends to kiss me again.

This time when he touches me, it’s with all the fire he’s always carried—but none of the destruction. He trails his hand down my side, over the dip of my waist, past my hip. His fingers slip between my thighs, and I open for him with a soft gasp.

He strokes me slowly, circling with care, teasing gently until my breath hitches. When he finally slides two fingers inside me, I moan against his neck. My body clenches around him, aching and soft, slick and ready.

“I need you,” I whisper.

“Good, I love it when you’re needy.”

He moves above me again, removing his pants without breaking contact. When he enters me, it’s slow. Every inch of him stretching me open, filling me. His head falls forward, breath ragged.

“You feel—” He can’t finish.

Neither can I.

We move together slowly, the tension melting into heat. His thrusts are deep, unhurried. He watches me the whole time, his eyes locked on my face like it’s the only truth he knows.

I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper. His hands slide under my back, cradling me. My nails dig into his shoulder, my lips parting with every breathless moan.

He whispers my name like a prayer.

When I start to tremble, he slows, grinding against me in perfect rhythm. The pleasure builds slow, aching. It curls low in my belly, then floods through me in a hot, blinding wave.

I cry out, body pulsing around him as the orgasm rips through me.

He shudders, grips my hips tighter, and follows me over the edge with a raw groan.

When he collapses beside me, I turn to him. Something has changed. “Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” he asks lightly, but there’s something soft in his gaze.

He brushes the hair from my face and kisses my temple. No words. Just presence.

I rest my head against his chest.

We lie there in silence, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. The sheets are warm, twisted around our legs, and the firelight flickers gently across the walls. His hand strokes slowly up and down my spine, not possessive; just there, anchoring me.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself breathe. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this,” I murmur.

“Like what?” His voice is quiet, rough around the edges.

“Safe.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Just keeps holding me. Then, “I’m not a safe man,” he says eventually. “But you’ll always be safe with me.”

I tilt my face up, brush a soft kiss over his jaw. He turns into it, catches my mouth with his again—slower this time, unhurried.

When we part, he whispers, “Sleep, Esme. I’ll be right here. And if you have nightmares, wake me up—I’ll scare them off for you.”