Page 24 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, pale and sharp and merciless.

They drag her away the moment we arrive.

I don’t argue—not then. Not when they rush her through triage, not when the nurse grips the back of the wheelchair like she’s afraid Esme might disappear if they don’t get her behind a door fast enough.

A blur of white coats swarms her. Questions, machines, soft commands I don’t understand. And then the doors shut.

Just like that, she’s gone, and I’m left in the hallway. It’s sterile. Bright. Quiet in the worst way.

Time becomes elastic—stretched, snapped, stretched again. I stand motionless while nurses pass without meeting my eyes, while orderlies wheel carts past, while voices murmur behind curtains. Not one of them looks at me. Not one of them dares.

As if the woman on the other side of that wall isn’t carrying my entire world.

My fists stay clenched at my sides. I don’t pace. Don’t speak. I just watch the door. Because I have to believe I’ll see her come back through it.

The minutes become long. Heavy, stretching into something worse than silence.

A part of me wants to tear through the wall and demand answers. To rip someone out by their collar until I have information, but I don’t move.

No one ever sees this part of me. Kion Sharov, infamous bastard, pacing holes in a hospital tile because the only thing that matters is the woman on the other side of the door.

Her voice from earlier echoes in my skull. “It just feels tight.” Her wince. Her hand on her stomach. The way she sank into the car seat like her bones couldn’t support her anymore.

The way she stopped smiling.

It replays. Over and over.

Thirty-eight minutes. That’s how long it’s been.

I know, because I’ve counted every one of them.

The door doesn’t open.

I grind my teeth until my jaw aches.

Then, finally—footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. I turn before he speaks.

“Mr. Sharov?” A doctor. Older. Calm eyes. Clipboard in hand. The kind of man who’s had bad news drilled into his bones.

He stops two feet in front of me.

“Don’t give me the soft sell, Doctor. I want answers, not a pamphlet.”

“I understand you’ve been waiting. I’m overseeing your partner’s case.” He pauses. “May we speak privately?”

“No.”

He hesitates. Swallows. Then adjusts his glasses. “She experienced a subchorionic hematoma—bleeding near the uterine wall. Not uncommon in the second trimester, though concerning.”

My blood runs cold.

He continues. “She’s stable. The bleeding has slowed. The fetus is alive and viable, with a strong heartbeat.”

Fetus.

He says the word like it’s not a baby at all. I nearly crush my own palm with the force of my grip.

“But,” he says gently, “there are risks. Stress can aggravate the condition. We’ll need to monitor her closely. No strenuous movement. Strict rest. Emotional regulation is key.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she must avoid anything that elevates her heart rate—physically or emotionally. Her next few weeks are delicate.”

I let out a sharp breath. “You want to keep her bedbound for a month? Good luck.”

His mouth twitches. “I mean it.”

I nod, all business. “She’ll rest. She’ll be so bored she’ll want to strangle me by next week. I’ll risk it.” Then, I sober. “Will it… happen again?”

He doesn’t lie. “It might.”

My chest pulls tight.

“She’s not in immediate danger,” he adds. “Although she will be, if we’re not careful. The same goes for the baby.”

The word hangs between us like a threat.

I nod once.

He gives me a look—hesitant, maybe even sympathetic—but doesn’t speak further. He walks away with the weightless ease of a man who’s already done all he can.

So I stand there, alone, with the silence crawling inside my lungs.

I press a hand to the cold tile wall. My other hand curls at my side, nails digging into my palm. I can’t stop seeing her face. The way she looked at me like she didn’t want to fall apart, but couldn’t help it.

I can’t lose Esme, or our child. I won’t.

A sound rises in my throat, something half a growl and half a curse, but I swallow it.

I stare at the floor. Focus. Breathe.

I breathe through my teeth, through the rage, through the guilt, through the unfamiliar swell of helplessness in my chest.

I’ve protected a thousand people. Run operations in war zones. Burned entire systems to ash. There is nothing I haven’t handled with precision and violence.

Except, I can’t fix what’s happening inside her. I can’t control it, and that truth tears something vital open in me.

I stay there for longer than I should, until the fury dulls just enough to contain again. Until my breath evens. Until the mask slides back into place.

When the door finally opens, when the nurse nods and tells me I can go in… I move like I wasn’t two seconds from collapsing in on myself in the hallway.

I walk in with my best poker face, shoulders squared. If I look like I’ve got it all under control, maybe I’ll believe it too.

For her, I’d play god, saint, or villain—whatever gets her through this.

I swear, as I cross the room to her bedside, that I’ll do whatever it takes—whatever it fucking takes—to make sure she never ends up in a room like this again.

She’s lying on her side when I enter, tucked beneath sterile white sheets, her face pale against the pillow. Her eyes flutter open the moment she senses me.

I cross the room in silence and sit beside her. My hand finds hers instantly. She squeezes, weak but present.

“They said the baby’s okay,” she whispers.

I nod. “Strong heartbeat. They’re watching everything.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” I say, sharper than intended. I soften my tone. “You did nothing wrong.”

Her eyes well up, but she blinks the tears back.

I press her knuckles to my lips, just once. “New rule. You don’t so much as fetch a glass of water without my say-so. You want something, you ask. Hell, you think about wanting something, and I’ll make it happen before you blink.”

She gives a faint smile. “You always do.”

I promise her—without words—that I’ll tear the world in half before I let this happen again.