Page 31 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The nurses come in every few hours, taking vitals, checking stitches, giving instructions.

I barely sleep, but I don’t care. Every time Liliana opens her eyes or stretches her tiny fingers, I forget I’m sore or exhausted.

Kion never leaves my side. Not once. He takes every question seriously, every update like a mission briefing.

When the nurse shows him how to swaddle, he listens with the intensity of a man learning how to disarm a bomb.

On the morning of our discharge, they hand us a thick packet of paperwork—referrals for follow-up appointments, pediatric specialists, scans and developmental checks. Premature but healthy, they say. Nothing concerning, but they want to keep a close eye on her progress.

I hold Liliana close as Kion pushes my wheelchair through the halls. Liliana is bundled in soft white with a little knitted cap that keeps slipping sideways. Her eyes blink lazily against the sunlight, already suspicious of the world she’s just joined.

Yuri is parked at the curb in one of Kion’s quieter cars—dark, sleek, nothing flashy. He gets out the moment he sees us, opening the door without a word. His eyes flick to the bundle in my arms, then to Kion, then back again.

He doesn’t smile, not really. But there’s something softer in his face than usual.

“She’s small,” he says.

“Small but loud,” Kion replies. “Give her a week. She’ll be running the place.”

I slide into the backseat with Liliana, holding her carefully as Kion climbs in beside me. Yuri doesn’t speak again. He just shuts the door and pulls away from the curb.

The drive is quiet.

Liliana sleeps soundly, one fist against her cheek. I keep my gaze on her the entire time, adjusting the blanket, brushing a thumb gently down the side of her face.

Kion’s arm rests behind me on the seat. He doesn’t speak either. He just watches.

Watches me. Watches her.

I feel his fingers stroke the back of my neck once. Then twice.

When we arrive, the house greets us in silence.

There are no guards hovering at the door, and no footsteps pacing in other rooms.

Kion lifts Liliana from my arms before I can protest, cradling her close as he guides me up the stairs with one hand pressed to the small of my back. I lean into his touch without thinking.

Every step is slower than usual. My body’s still sore, fragile in ways I don’t quite recognize, but I’m too full to care. My arms ache only because they’re empty now. Kion carries her gently, more carefully than I’ve ever seen him move. His voice, when he speaks to her, is low and quiet. Private.

“You’re home now, little one.”

He pushes open the bedroom door, and I pause in the threshold. The nursery is visible through the archway beyond our bed, bathed in soft golden light. I haven’t been in there since it was finished, and now, standing here, I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

It’s beautiful.

White walls, pale wood furniture. Soft clouds painted above the cot, and pale curtains tied back to reveal warm yellow lamps and a rocking chair tucked in the corner. The bassinet is already in place beside our bed, its frame delicate but strong.

He did this. Finished it in time. Somehow, in the madness of everything, he made it ready.

“She belongs here,” I whisper.

“Of course she does. We made it for her.”

Kion crosses the room and lowers Liliana into her bassinet. His movements are smooth, practiced. He adjusts the blanket around her tiny body and brushes a knuckle lightly over her cheek. She sighs, eyes fluttering closed again. He watches her for a long moment before turning to me.

“You need to lie down.”

I don’t argue.

He helps me into bed—carefully, always careful. His hands are warm against my back as I ease beneath the sheets, the softness of them unfamiliar after the hospital’s sharp corners. I melt into the mattress with a long breath, letting my muscles sink, every ache dulled by the comfort of home.

Kion tucks the blanket around my waist, smoothing it gently, then pulls the duvet higher. He brushes a hand through my hair, untangling the strands near my face.

“I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“I know,” I murmur, eyes already closing. “You always do.”

He stays a moment longer, his hand lingering against my temple. Then he straightens, circles to the other side of the bed, and crawls in beside me.

The monitor is set on the nightstand. Faint static hums through it, broken only by the tiny rhythmic breaths of our daughter. Kion lies close but doesn’t crowd me, one arm resting above my head, the other tucked under the pillow. I can feel his warmth behind me, a constant, quiet presence.

“Rest,” he says softly. “I’ve got you. If you so much as think about getting up, I’ll call in an army of nurses. I mean it.”

***

I wake to the soft crackle of firelight and the gentle hum of something familiar. Not the monitor, though that still whispers quietly on the nightstand. It’s the sound of him—Kion—moving across the room in that way he does when he’s trying not to be noticed. Quiet, but never invisible.

The bed beside me is empty.

I blink the sleep from my eyes and push up slowly. My body still aches, but not in the sharp, unbearable way it did before. Just a dull pull beneath the ribs. A tiredness that makes sense now. I glance toward the fire.

He’s there.

Sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of it, one arm bracing Liliana gently against his chest. She’s half swaddled, nestled in a pale blanket. Her eyes are open, wide and alert, her small hand curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Kion is murmuring something to her—soft, rhythmic, almost like a lullaby, but lower. I can’t make out the words.

“Your mum’s the boss, but don’t tell her I said that.”

He doesn’t notice I’m awake until I move closer.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, his voice quiet and apologetic. “She was fussing.”

“You should’ve brought her to me.”

“You need sleep. She just wanted to be held.”

I ease myself down beside him on the rug, careful with my movements. The fire throws soft light across his face, catching the tiredness in his eyes; but there’s peace there too. A calm I’ve never seen in him like this. Not this real. Not this simple.

He shifts slightly to make room for me, and I tuck myself under his arm, resting my head against his shoulder. Liliana gurgles, her tiny fingers still grasping his shirt like she’s claimed him completely. She’s already won him over.

We sit like that for a while, side by side, watching the fire and the little girl between us who’s made everything feel different.

“Did you mean it?” I ask softly, not looking away from Liliana. “What you said about giving me another child.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Yes.”

“When?”

“When you’re ready,” he says. “Not a day before.”

I smile at that. “You’d do it, though. In a heartbeat.”

“Of course I would.”

I watch Liliana shift in his arms, her mouth twitching toward a smile even in sleep.

“I think a sibling would be good for her,” I say. “One day.”

“Careful what you wish for, Esme. You know I’m not the type to do anything by halves.”

In the silence that follows, with our daughter breathing softly and the fire crackling low, the idea doesn’t feel overwhelming. It doesn’t feel far away.

It feels like a promise we’ll keep.