Page 22 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The house is still.

Too still.

I can hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the main hall, the hum of the low-watt lights tucked along the corridor edges. Somewhere far off, a door creaks as one of the overnight staff shifts their patrol.

Here, in my study, it’s silent.

The ledger lies open in front of me, its corner stained a rust-brown that used to be red.

It’s hers, from the night it happened. The night Clarke’s filth got close enough to touch the air around her. One of his men grabbed this from her bag as she ran—thought it might be useful. Thought it might matter.

I stare down at the page, its numbers blurred, ink smudged. I don’t see profits. I don’t see forecasts.

I see her face. Wide eyes. Trembling hands. That split second when she thought I might be too late.

My hands curl into fists. I told myself I’d never feel anything again. That nothing soft would survive in a man like me, but then she came.

Now softness has turned to obsession.

My mind is distracted when I hear a knock break the quiet.

Yuri’s voice follows. “We’re ready.”

I close the ledger.

The study door opens with a slow creak. The hallway outside is dark, but I don’t need light to find my way. I built this house to contain every part of me. Including what happens when someone breaks my rules.

In the inner chamber—low ceilings, no windows—Arseni and Yuri wait at the round table. Arseni’s jaw is tight. Shoulders stiff. He knows why he’s here.

The second the door closes behind me, the tension shifts.

Yuri stands.

I take my time circling the room.

“You failed,” I say simply.

Arseni’s mouth opens. “Sir, I—”

“You failed,” I repeat. “She left the perimeter. Right through the fucking gates, under your noses.”

“I thought she had clearance—”

“You thought?”

I stop behind him.

He doesn’t breathe.

“You failed. The woman carrying my child walked out the fucking gates while you stood there scratching your arse. That’s not a mistake. That’s an insult.”

Arseni swallows. Loud in the silence.

“You hesitated,” I say. “When my men hesitate, others bleed.”

He stands suddenly. “Please, Boss—I can fix this.”

“You’re right,” I say, stepping around to face him.

Then I slam my fist into his stomach. The air rushes from his lungs with a sick gasp, and he drops hard to his knees.

“See, Arseni? That’s called a consequence. You don’t get those in training videos.”

I don’t stop.

My foot comes down across his ribs, then again. The sound of cartilage giving way is sharp. Wet.

He coughs once. Tries to rise.

I kick him back down.

He shouldn’t have let her leave. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off her. He shouldn’t have needed me to clean up his failure.

I crouch, take his face in my hand, and tilt it up toward mine.

Blood slips from his nose. His eyes are wide. Terrified.

“She was crying,” I say softly. “When I found her. She was cold, and she was afraid.

He doesn’t speak.

“There is nothing in this world I wouldn’t burn to the ground for her.”

Still silence.

“Get him out of here,” I tell Yuri. “Drag him out. Patch him up—he can try out the new mop rotation at the warehouse. Tell him the first guy who catches him slacking gets a bonus. And you”—I point at Yuri, smirking—“you’re only safe because you bring me coffee strong enough to wake the dead.”

Yuri hauls Arseni out without a word.

The door swings shut behind them, and I’m alone.

I don’t sit. I stay standing, watching the fire crackle in the grate across the room. It throws light against the tiled floor, the orange reflections warping as they shift across the dark polish. The heat doesn’t reach me.

A long time passes before the door opens again.

Yuri steps in. Closes it behind him. Shakes rain off his shoulders like a dog and runs a hand through his hair.

“Warehouse,” he says shortly. “Took it like a man.”

“Good.”

“He’ll last a week before someone knocks his teeth out.”

“If he’s lucky.”

Yuri doesn’t argue. He crosses to the small bar in the corner and pours himself a glass of water. No whiskey tonight. That tells me more than anything.

I lean against the edge of the desk.

He turns toward me. His jaw is tight. “You want to talk about it now?”

“I want to make sure this never happens again.”

He nods once. “Then we start with the perimeter. Expand the safe zone radius around the estate. Double body rotation. Anyone even thinking about a day off in the next six months can take it up with me.”

“Right.”

“I’m putting new motion sensors in the south garden. Same tech we use at the safe houses—heat-mapped, trip-wired. We’ll test it every morning.”

I raise a brow. “You think someone’s getting in through the hedge maze?”

“I think if someone’s dumb enough to try, they should die in the hedge maze.”

I grin. “Careful, you’ll set off the alarms yourself next time you sneak out to smoke.”

Yuri downs the water in two swallows, then sets the glass aside with a clink and a laugh. “What else?”

“I’m tapping a ghost team to trail her. Fully trained, off-book. No IDs. They won’t make themselves known unless she’s in danger.”

“She’ll hate that.”

“She’ll be alive, though.”

That shuts him up.

I press my fingers to my brow, exhaling slowly. The pressure behind my eyes hasn’t faded since I saw the bruises on her skin.

Yuri crosses the room again and leans against the opposite wall. “You know this is mad, right?”

I look up.

He shrugs. “You. Her. All of this. You never gave a shit about anyone. And now suddenly you’re setting half the city on fire because someone breathed near her.”

“I’m not in the mood for commentary.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

He keeps going anyway. “You used to say love made men soft. Weak. Gave people something to take from them.”

“It does.”

“And yet…”

I level a slow look at him.

He holds up both hands. “Hey. I’m not judging, just surprised. I always figured you’d die alone in that big bed, a knife under your pillow and a body count in your ledger.”

“I didn’t plan for her,” I say.

“Clearly.”

“She’s not just…” I trail off. “She’s not a game. She’s not leverage. She’s not some piece I moved across the board.”

Yuri watches me, curious now. “Then what is she?”

“She’s my wife, which means she’s the most important thing in this damn building.”

He’s quiet at that. Just nods slowly, like he’s trying to understand something he knows he never really will.

“You love her?”

Yuri laughs, but I cut him a look. “It’s simple. She’s mine. All in. No returns. The kid too. That’s my legacy.”

Yuri whistles, “Careful, you’ll start a rumor.”

I bare my teeth in a grin. “Let them gossip, see if I care.”

“No shit.” He just laughs, and rolls his eyes. “You got it, Boss. I’ll have everything set up by tomorrow.”

I nod once.

The door clicks shut behind him. I stand alone again.

I return to the one place that hasn’t let me sleep in days—my private office, just off the bedroom Esme now sleeps in.

The lights stay low. I don’t need them bright. I already know what’s on the screen.

I sit, pulling up the surveillance feed from the night of the attack.

Camera three. Alley mouth. Zoom in.

There she is—slipping through the fence gap, coat too big, her body curled like she’s already preparing to defend something. Her arms around her stomach. Her eyes darting. The way she moves: hesitant, then faster. Then almost panicked.

I watch her breathe.

Then I rewind, and I watch it again.

And again.

The exact moment her hand flies to her abdomen. The exact second her head jerks to the side, sensing footsteps before they even round the corner.

My thumb tightens against the scrub wheel.

Frame. By. Frame.

Her mouth opens in a gasp. She stumbles back. Clarke appears—blurry at first, then clearer. Approaching too close. Smiling.

I pause the footage.

His face burns back at me through the screen.

My jaw clenches so tightly it aches.

I rewind. Again. And again. Until my knuckles go white around the armrest. Until the plastic creaks.

It’s not just the fear in her eyes that twists something deep inside me, it’s the helplessness.

She’s carrying my child. It’s not a theory anymore. Not something distant. It’s a very real, very important thing, and I can’t let anything hurt her or that baby.

Except, I let them get close enough to take it all away.

I slam the monitor off with one sharp jab of my knuckles.

The screen goes black. My reflection stares back—jaw clenched, eyes bloodshot, the weight of the night still sitting in the hard set of my shoulders.

I push up from the chair, go to the corner cabinet and pour myself two fingers of whisky. No ice.

The burn helps. Scalds my throat and reminds me that I’m still here. Still in control. I sip slowly, letting it bite. Letting it tame the part of me that still wants to walk into the street and end something.

Vengeance can wait until dawn. She can’t.

I set the glass down and cross the room.

The hall is dark, but I don’t need light to find her. I know every inch of this place by instinct now. Especially the path back to her.

I step into the bedroom and close the door behind me with a careful click.

She’s asleep. Deep, by the looks of it.

The blankets are a mess, her legs tangled in silk, one arm curled beneath her pillow. Her breathing is slow. Even.

I watch her for a moment. The tension she carried earlier is gone from her face. No fear now. No panic.

It undoes me.

I walk to her side and lower myself down gently, and Esme doesn’t stir. I lean in and brush my lips across her temple. The lightest kiss I’ve ever given.

A whisper of one, really. Something no one would ever believe me capable of.

She sighs in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.

I slip in behind her and pull the blanket up over both of us, then slide an arm around her waist.

She’s warm. Soft. Her back presses into my chest.

I close my eyes, the scent of her hair grounds me. Vanilla. Skin. Sleep. I inhale slowly, hold it, and finally—finally—let the rest of the night go.

For now, she’s safe. So long as I’m breathing, that won’t change.