Page 23 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

I don’t knock on Kion’s office door often. He keeps it closed more than usual these days, the world inside quieter, darker. Private.

This morning, I knock. Gently. Twice. Then I fold my hands in front of me and wait.

The door opens not long after. He’s in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone. He looks like power incarnate: half-shaved jaw, ink peeking through at the wrist. But his eyes soften when they meet mine.

“Esme,” he says, stepping aside. “You’re braver than most, knocking this early.”

I don’t cross the threshold, just shift my weight from one foot to the other and glance at the floor.

“I want to go out,” I say.

He doesn’t respond right away.

“Not long,” I add. “Just a few hours. There’s a place downtown. They’ve got strollers and baby clothes and all those silly things.” I meet his eyes again. “I just… I want to feel normal. For a little while.”

He studies me. The weight of his gaze is steady. It’s not cold; he’s just considering—like he’s doing risk calculations in his head.

“You’ll have protection.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I figured.”

Still, he waits a beat longer. Then he nods. “Get dressed. We’ll go in an hour.”

***

The ride into the city is quiet, but not tense.

I rest my hand over the small curve of my belly, watching the buildings blur past the window.

Kion sits beside me in the back, his thigh pressed against mine, one hand resting loosely on his knee.

He hasn’t said much. But every few minutes, his eyes flick to me, then to the street.

The store is tucked off the main road, modern, well lit, filled with things I never thought I’d get to look at.

I step inside and freeze.

There’s an entire wall of baby blankets. Strollers lined up like cars in a showroom. Racks of impossibly tiny onesies, each softer than the last.

Kion stays close behind me. Silent. Watchful.

I can’t help myself; I walk to the first row and run my fingers over a blanket that feels like clouds.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, lifting a pair of tiny knit socks. “Kion, look at these.”

He doesn’t answer.

I glance over my shoulder and catch him staring at me, and there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s barely there, but it’s real.

I hold the socks up higher, wiggling them between two fingers. “You think our kid’s going to hate us if we make them wear these?”

He snorts in amusement, arms crossed. “I’m not having my kid dressed in pastels.”

“But they’re so cute!”

“And I’m paying, so for the love of God please put them back.”

I laugh under my breath and keep moving.

I don’t know what it is about the baby aisle. Maybe it’s the pastels. The softness. The innocence. Maybe it’s just being in a place where no one’s bleeding, no one’s angry, and nothing smells like gunpowder.

Whatever it is, I feel lighter here.

I pick up a stroller catalog and flip through it. “Do you have any preferences?” I ask, showing him one with gold trim.

“No.”

I raise a brow. “Not even for safety specs?”

“They’ll be surrounded by four armed men and two bulletproof cars. I think we’re fine.”

I snort. “Right. Of course.”

Still, he comes up beside me as I move through the store. I don’t see him pick anything up. He doesn’t linger over clothes or compare bottle sets.

When I find a mobile with little velvet stars and turn to show him, it’s already gone from my hands and in the arms of a store clerk.

He buys everything I so much as glance at.

I nudge him with my shoulder. “You know, you don’t have to buy the whole store.”

He grins, full of teeth. “Says who? I’ve got the card for it. Besides, spoiling you is good for my reputation.”

I catch him looking at me again when I pause at the shelf of pacifiers. I pick one up—ivory, shaped like a daisy—and roll it between my fingers.

Kion’s watching like he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling.

I set it down, walk over, and slip my hand into his.

He squeezes once.

It’s not much, just a small squeeze, but it’s enough to make my chest ache with something quiet and unexpected. His grip is warm, grounded. Like I’m tethered again. Like all the fear from weeks ago has finally started to thaw under something gentler.

“Let me know if you see anything you want,” he says, his voice low, near my ear.

“I already did.”

He arches a brow.

I smile, tip my head toward the velvet star mobile now tucked neatly into one of the store bags. “That one.”

He just nods, like that’s already been handled.

Knowing him—it has.

I turn to speak with one of the clerks about bassinets, asking half out of genuine curiosity and half just to hear someone talk about something normal.

Something simple. It feels good to ask questions that don’t involve bulletproof glass or security clearance.

The woman’s kind, warm in that practiced retail way, and she’s more than happy to explain features I don’t understand.

As I lean closer to get a better look at a crib’s folding mechanism, something shifts behind me.

A rustle. A snap of tension that pulls my skin tight.

I glance over my shoulder and see that Kion’s gone.

The space where he stood is empty. I look to my left—nothing. My right—nothing.

Then I see it.

Across the store, near the open staircase that curves to the lower level, a child stands far too close to the edge of the upper landing. No more than five, maybe six. One hand on the metal railing, toes perched on the base ledge, leaning forward like they’re watching something below.

The child’s mother is across the room, back turned, talking to another adult.

I barely have time to register what’s happening.

Kion does, and suddenly he’s moving. I’ve never seen him run unless there’s blood in the air—but he does now. He crosses the space in seconds.

He doesn’t grab or yank. He swoops in low, one hand securing the child around the waist, the other steadying the railing. The child gasps—more surprised than scared—as Kion lifts them back from the edge and crouches down beside them.

He says something. “No more acrobatics, kid, or you’ll give the staff gray hair. “He pats their back once. Light, almost gentle.

By then the mother’s noticed; she rushes over in a panic, voice rising with horror and apology. She tries to thank him. Tries to offer explanation, but Kion just rises, gives a small nod, and steps away.

When he turns around, he freezes, because I’m watching him.

He walks back slowly. His face is blank, but his eyes aren’t. There’s something in them I can’t name. Like he’s unsure what I saw—unsure how to explain what just happened.

He reaches me. “You okay?” he asks.

“Are you ?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Saw it before it happened.”

“You’re amazing.”

He frowns slightly. “What?”

I shake my head. There’s no way to explain it in words, so I just look at him.

This man ran toward danger because he saw a small body teetering too close to a ledge, and he didn’t do it for show. He didn’t stop to think. He moved.

Suddenly, I can see it—our child’s tiny hand in his. Their head on his shoulder. The way he’d bend to tie their shoes without a word. The way he’d teach them without needing to raise his voice. The way he’d build them a fortress from nothing but his own strength and devotion.

Maybe he’s never had a home that was safe.

Maybe that’s why he’ll be the one to give it.

We don’t talk about it right away. I don’t try to tell him what I saw.

As we head to the front of the store and the clerk rings up the last items, I catch his reflection in the mirror behind the counter.

The bassinet is the last item we settle on—soft gray with brushed gold accents, the kind of design that whispers wealth without screaming for attention. Kion handles the payment like he does everything else: quickly, efficiently, without blinking at the number on the screen.

The clerk asks about delivery options.

“Tomorrow,” Kion says. “I want it in the front nursery by ten.”

She stutters through a confirmation and double-checks the address, hands shaking slightly as she prints the receipt. He never raises his voice, never so much as frowns, but people feel the weight of him even when he’s still.

We leave the store with fewer bags than I expected. Most things are scheduled for courier delivery. There’s a security car already waiting by the curb, but I don’t want to go back yet. Not just yet.

Kion watches me as I slow my steps.

“I’m not finished,” I say, glancing toward the mall corridor.

He nods once. “A few more shops. No longer.”

“Deal.”

So, we wander.

That’s the only word for it.

Neither of us has anywhere urgent to be, and for the first time in weeks, I feel almost normal.

Just a woman walking through a shopping center with the father of her child.

His arm brushes mine as we walk. He never lets me stray far, always hovering just behind or beside, a presence that doesn’t feel suffocating—not today.

We pass a bookstore. I pause, tempted, but the smell of coffee from the attached café turns my stomach.

Kion catches my hand gently. “We’ll come back another day.”

I nod and let him lead me away.

I catch him watching couples as we pass—a man kneeling to tie his partner’s shoe, another pushing a stroller while talking on the phone. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression.

Like he’s trying to picture himself in their place.

It’s in the last boutique that everything changes.

I step forward, toward a display of buttery-soft sweaters and linen baby rompers. My fingers reach out—habit now—to touch one.

My breath catches. A sudden, tight pull blooms across my lower stomach.

My hand falls away from the hanger. I freeze mid-step, one arm instinctively wrapping across my belly. The pain tightens, then eases just slightly. Still—I grip the edge of the nearest display table. My knees tremble.

I hear Kion’s voice before I see him. Calm, low, but sharp around the edges. “Esme?”

He’s beside me in seconds, and his arm wraps around my back, the other under my arm. “Tell me.”

I can’t breathe right. “It just—tight. All of a sudden. It’s not like before. Just… pressure.”

His jaw locks. “ Just pressure, huh? I’m calling Yuri.”

I wince. “It’s just pressure—”

“I’m not fighting you on this, sweetheart. We’re leaving.”

I don’t argue.

He doesn’t wait for the security detail. He lifts the bags with one hand and steers me with the other, his arm locked firmly around my waist as we move swiftly through the mall.

I try to walk faster, but the sensation hasn’t faded. If anything, it creeps deeper now—an ache, low and spreading. My heart kicks hard in my chest.

I feel him tense with every step I falter.

By the time we reach the car, the doors are already open.

He helps me in gently, his touch careful but unshakable. Once I’m settled, he crouches beside the door, eyes scanning every inch of my face.

“You’re paler than my accountant, and that bastard hasn’t seen sunlight since 2006.”

“I’m just scared.”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t be.”

I force a smile. “Easier said than done.”

He brushes his hand over my belly. I’ll take care of it.”

He closes the door carefully and rounds to the other side, barking orders to the driver in a voice that doesn’t invite questions.

The moment he slides in beside me, he takes my hand in his again.

I don’t let go.

Seconds later, the car pulls away from the curb like a bullet, smooth and fast. Kion doesn’t take his eyes off me. One hand is on mine, the other braced against the seat like he’s resisting the urge to tear the city apart for letting me hurt.

I lean my head back, eyes closed, breathing slow. The pain’s still there, dull and deep now, but not sharp.

“I think it’s okay,” I say softly. “It’s not like last time. I don’t think it’s that.”

“I’m not taking the chance.”

His voice is clipped. Cold to everyone but me.

I squeeze his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” He says it quickly. Then quieter: “It’s not fear. It’s fury.”

I open my eyes and look at him. His gaze is locked on me, unblinking. Protective. Possessive. Underneath all that steel, there’s something softer. Something raw.

He doesn’t say he was scared, but I feel it in the way he hasn’t let go of me since.

The driver takes a hard turn. Kion adjusts the angle of my seat himself, gently easing it back. Then his hand returns to my stomach, thumb stroking small circles like he can will everything to be alright.

Maybe—if anyone can—it’s him.

I whisper, “We’re okay.”