Page 28 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The house is quiet tonight.

It’s quiet. There are no boots tracking across the marble, no doors opening and closing with urgency, no low voices trading updates in corners. The Bratva machine hums elsewhere now, away from these walls, like it’s decided—for once—to leave this place untouched.

The silence is rare. And I breathe it in like air after smoke.

The fire crackles softly in the grate. I sit curled in the armchair nearby, a woven blanket pulled over my legs, my free hand resting over the curve of my belly. The fabric of my dress is thin here, stretched just enough to show the rise of my bump through it.

Eight months.

It doesn’t feel real.

Or maybe it feels too real—like there’s something holy about this hush, this weight, this tiny life shifting under my palm. I’ve been feeling the movements more lately. Stronger. Less like flutters and more like insistence. Like the baby’s saying, I’m here. I’m growing. I’m yours.

I smile to myself, eyes half closed. For a moment, I almost keep it to myself.

Then the ache comes.

That small, irrational tug somewhere in my chest that says I don’t want to be the only one who feels this. I don’t want to keep it to myself tonight.

I want him to know it too. I want to see his face.

So I call softly, not loud—just enough. “Kion?”

Footsteps follow a moment later. Slow. Bare.

He enters from the hallway, damp hair pushed back, a towel slung around his neck.

Shirtless, clean from the shower. There’s always something unreal about seeing him like this—unguarded, undone, not encased in suits or commands.

His tattoos stand out sharper under the warm light, shadows pooling in the dips of muscle and scar.

He looks like a man sculpted by war and shaped by purpose—but right now, his face is softer. Curious.

He finds me watching him and smirks—just a little, all teeth and danger, even with his guard down. “Enjoying the view?” he drawls, voice rough with something only I ever get to hear.

I extend my hand toward him.

He crosses the room without hesitation and takes it. His palm is warm, rough, steady.

I guide it gently to my belly.

He stills. At first, there’s nothing. Just the faint warmth of skin beneath skin. His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t move.

And then a kick.

Firm. Sudden.

He glances at me, eyes wide, mock-accusing: “Did she just kick?”

I laugh. “She’s got your attitude.”

He squeezes my hand gently, grinning. “God help us all.”

I giggle, and Kion’s mouth twitches. The edge of a smile, rare and real.

“She’s active tonight,” I murmur.

“She,” he repeats, low.

We haven’t chosen names. We haven’t agreed on anything official, but I’ve caught him saying it when he thinks I’m not listening. She’ll be strong. She’ll be safe. She won’t be touched.

I rest my hand over his.

Another kick.

He doesn’t speak, but I see the change happen—his expression softens, the sharpness in his eyes giving way to something quieter. Less guarded.

He crouches beside the chair slowly, never taking his hand from me.

“She’s strong,” he says.

“She gets it from you.”

“No,” he says. “Not just me.”

He brushes his thumb slowly across my belly, then leans forward and presses his lips to the curve of it. Just once. A quiet, reverent kiss.

I inhale sharply. Not from shock—but from how tender it feels. How deliberate.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says quietly, not lifting his head. “But I want to get it right.”

“You’re doing better than you think.”

He glances up. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He stands then, drawing the blanket higher over my legs, then sits beside me and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder, his arm tight around my back, and his hand returns to my stomach as if he never left it.

“I never pictured this,” I whisper.

“What?”

“You. Me. This baby. A fire. A quiet room.”

His voice is rough when he answers. “Me neither.”

He laughs softly. “If you’d told me a few years ago I’d be here, married with a kid on the way, I’d have laughed you out of the room. Now look at me.”

I grin, and he grins back, and then I kiss him.

***

Later that night, I sense him before I see him.

The lights are dim. A single lamp glows on the bedside table. I’ve already tucked myself beneath the covers, my robe soft against bare skin, the room quiet except for the faint hum of distant rain against the windows.

He lingers in the doorway longer than usual.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cross the room. Just stands there, one hand braced against the frame, watching me with that unreadable expression I’ve only recently begun to understand.

It’s not coldness; it’s restraint. Control so tight it hums beneath his skin.

I should look away. Pretend to be tired. I should turn over and let the moment pass.

I meet his gaze, and I know he’s not the only one starving.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. Intentional. The way he approaches me isn’t commanding, not like the man they all see in the war room or at the head of the table. There’s no demand in his touch tonight. Just a quiet hunger. Unspoken, but heavy in the air between us.

He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand bracing the mattress.

“You’re staring,” I murmur.

He doesn’t smile. “So are you.”

I reach for him.

It’s simple, just fingers curling into his wrist, then sliding up the lean length of his forearm. The contact breaks something open in both of us. His other hand cups my face, tilting my head, and then he kisses me.

His mouth moves with mine like he’s trying to drink me in. I pull him closer, my hands slipping beneath his shirt, dragging across warm skin and taut muscle. He exhales against my mouth, one arm slipping around my waist as he leans over me, pressing me gently into the mattress.

The tension between us has been stretching for weeks, kept in check by careful lines neither of us dared cross.

Tonight… the line blurs.

His fingers tug at the tie of my robe. I shift beneath him, thighs parting instinctively, body arching as his hand glides over my leg, up the swell of my hip.

He groans low in his throat, kissing me harder, deeper. My robe falls open slightly, and his hand skims over the bare skin of my belly. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He touches me with reverence, but there’s nothing timid in it.

Only purpose.

Only want.

I slide a leg over his hip, anchoring him against me. Our bodies press flush. His mouth trails down my neck, warm and insistent, and I gasp as his teeth graze the soft skin above my collarbone.

“Kion…”

He pauses, breathing hard, forehead resting against mine.

I wait for him to pull away. For the silence.

Instead, he laughs—low, rough, breathless.

“What?” I whisper.

He smiles, just a little. “We keep doing this.”

“What, stopping?”

“No. Testing how far we can go before I completely lose my mind.”

I laugh too. A shaky, half-dazed sound. I reach up, brushing a damp curl from his forehead.

“You’re doing better than I thought,” I tease.

He leans down and kisses me again, slower now. Then he pulls back, just enough to look at me. “After this one…”

“Hm?”

“I’m giving you another.”

I blink. Then laugh. “You’re what?”

He grins, teeth flashing. “Call it an empire, and you’re the only one I want running it.”

I swat his chest lightly. “One baby at a time, please.”

“Fine, but I’m not done with you.”

“I figured that out weeks ago.”

He rolls onto his side, still half wrapped around me. His hand finds my stomach again, palm resting there like it belongs.

The heat lingers between us—unsatisfied, but not unwelcome. I don’t mind the ache anymore. It’s good to want him. It’s good to know he wants me too, and that he’d wait, even when he’s desperate. Even when I’m pulling at him with everything I’ve got.

Because that’s love, isn’t it?

The restraint. The reverence.

The way he touches me like I’m his, but protects me like I’m more than that.

I lay my head on his chest, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady beneath my palm. He slides his arm around me without needing to be asked, pulling me in like gravity.

“I’m not afraid,” I whisper.

His hand tightens just slightly at my back. “Of what?”

“Tomorrow. What comes next. I’m not afraid of it tonight.”

He doesn’t speak. He just keeps holding me.

Maybe that’s the answer, because for the first time, I’m not bracing for the fall. I’m not wondering how long this will last or what parts of me I’ll lose to survive it.

We stay curled around each other, the firelight flickering low across the sheets. The heat between us has faded into something quieter—something sweeter. A warmth that lingers in the way he kisses me, not like he’s claiming anything, but like he can’t quite stop.

Kion brushes his nose along my cheek, presses another kiss to the corner of my mouth, and then pulls back just enough to look down at me.

“I still want to kill half the city,” he murmurs.

I laugh, breathless. “But?”

“But right now,” he says, bending to kiss my jaw, “I just want to keep kissing you.”

I tip my head up. “Then don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He kisses me again—lazy now, like we have all the time in the world. Our laughter comes and goes between the soft touches, the murmured nothings, the way I pull him close and he lets me.

Eventually, he shifts onto his back, dragging me with him, and we settle like that—me half sprawled across his chest, his hand resting over my belly.

“She’s moving again,” I whisper, guiding his palm lower.

His fingers spread gently, his touch reverent. “Still kicking?”

“She’s relentless.”

“She’s getting stronger.”

I look up at him, raising a brow. “Still convinced it’s a girl?”

He nods, sure. “Don’t tell me for sure, I know she is. Stubborn. Doesn’t like to be ignored.” He cocks a brow, mouth curved. “If she’s half as stubborn as her mother, we’ll have to put warning signs on the front gate.”

I laugh. “Then we need a name.”

He hums low in his throat. “Something beautiful, and unique.”

I think for a moment. “Liliana?”

He tilts his head. “Liliana?”

“In some languages, it means innocence and peace.”

He repeats it under his breath. “Liliana Sharov.”

“It fits.”

He laughs, then presses a kiss to my temple. “Perfect.”

“What if it’s a boy?”

“Then we’ll figure out an equally dignified name, but I know she’s a girl.”

I smile against his chest.

His hand strokes small circles over my stomach again, and I cover it with mine, fitting my fingers between his.

The fire crackles once. Outside, the wind picks up.

In here, we’re wrapped in something still and steady.

“I could stay like this forever,” I murmur.

We fall quiet again, murmuring names until our words blur, until I can’t keep my eyes open. His voice fades into the slow rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear.

That’s how we fall asleep—his arm around me, my hand over his, and a name whispered once more into the quiet.