Page 4 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

She looks smaller in the chair.

It’s not that she’s especially petite, though she is.

It’s the way she slumps, wrists bound loosely in front of her, like she’s been dropped there by accident.

Like this wasn’t meant for her. Her head tilts to one side, chin brushing the collar of her soaked hoodie, the blue now dark with water.

Strands of damp hair cling to her cheeks.

Her lashes rest like shadows against skin gone pale under the overhead light.

Her lips are parted slightly. Just parted, like she was in the middle of saying something before the world slipped out from under her.

I stand a few feet away, arms crossed, watching.

There’s something about her that doesn’t fit.

Not here, not in the concrete silence of this borrowed safehouse, with its peeling walls and flickering bulb, the smell of wet asphalt and motor oil still heavy in the air.

The room is built for interrogation, maybe even execution.

She looks like she belongs in a library.

She doesn’t belong to this world. That much is obvious.

I’ve been in this game long enough to recognize the signs.

She’s young. Early twenties. A college girl, if I had to guess.

Her hands are soft, nails clean. No tattoos, no scars.

Canvas shoes, not leather. Her bag—now dumped on the table—held a half-eaten sandwich, a dead phone, and a notebook.

I don’t see any ID, or a wallet. No pepper spray, no blade tucked in a sock.

She’s not a threat, but that doesn’t matter.

I should kill her. That’s the rule. No witnesses, no loose ends. I know this. I’ve enforced it myself more times than I care to remember. More times than I can count.

My gaze drifts back to her face. Her pulse flutters visibly at her neck, a tiny, stubborn rhythm. She’s breathing steadily now. The sedative is wearing off.

I take a slow breath and step closer.

Arseni had said she ran like she had something to protect.

Like someone would be coming for her. But no one had.

No one ever does. Girls like her—the ones with quiet eyes and spiral notebooks—move through the world unnoticed.

They don’t cause ripples. They get swept up in other people’s messes and disappear without leaving a mark.

I glance at the notebook again. Nothing inside but scribbled names I don’t recognize, little notes in cramped handwriting, and a sketch of a coffee cup with a crooked handle. There’s no reason for her to be here.

So why was she in the warehouse?

I watched the footage. The camera above the loading dock caught her slipping inside after the rain started, hugging the shadows. She didn’t have a weapon or a camera. Was it just… curiosity? Dumb luck? A mistake.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Still, when I grabbed her, when her wrist twisted in my hand and she looked up at me with panic in her eyes, I expected something. A scream. A lie. A name she thought might save her.

She said nothing.

Now, I move in closer, boots echoing faintly in the stillness. I pause beside the chair and crouch.

She doesn’t stir.

My hand hovers near my jacket. The pistol waits there, weighty and certain. All it would take is one clean shot. Quick. Painless. Efficient.

I’ve done worse. Far worse, but something stops me.

It’s not fear. I haven’t known fear in years. Not guilt. I buried that long ago with the others.

It’s something smaller. Quieter.

I look at her again. The curve of her jaw. The faint smear of dirt below her ear. The way her hair curls at her temple. The pulse at her throat hasn’t changed.

This isn’t hesitation. Not in the way I’ve known it.

I stay there, crouched in front of her. Silent. Watching. Thinking. Wondering what the hell it is about her that makes me pause at all.

She stirs with a small sound, something between a breath and a groan. Her body shifts against the chair, legs tensing, shoulders twitching as she blinks groggily at the floor. I stay where I am, crouched, still, waiting. It doesn’t take long.

Her eyes snap open.

The panic hits all at once. I see it spread across her face like a fuse being lit: the widening of her gaze, the sudden awareness of the ropes at her wrists, the damp chill of the chair beneath her.

Her back jerks against it. She tries to push away, to stand, to twist out of the bindings that aren’t even tight.

“What the hell—let me go!” Her voice is raw, frayed at the edges, but not broken. Trembling, yes, but not weak.

I lean in, just slightly. Close enough to see the detail in her eyes—brown, flecked with amber. Close enough to hear the ragged rhythm of her breath.

“You saw something,” I say, with a broad sweep of my hand in her direction. “Too much, I imagine.”

She flinches like the words strike her. Her eyes dart to the pistol still holstered at my side. Her expression tightens.

“That makes you a problem.”

She stares. I can see the thoughts chasing each other behind her eyes, too fast and too loud to grab hold of. She’s trying to figure out if I’m bluffing. If this is some scare tactic. Some act. The kind of thing you see in movies and think, He’s not really going to do it.

She has no idea who I am.

I don’t give her an answer. I let her keep guessing.

The truth is, I’ve already made my choice. At least for now. I just haven’t told her yet. No one else needs to know—not Yuri or Arseni, not the poor bastard whose body we left cooling on the warehouse floor.

I reach out and tilt her chin up with two fingers so she has no choice but to look at me.

Her skin is cold. Damp. She flinches again, just slightly, but doesn’t try to pull away. Not yet. I keep my grip gentle. No bruising. Not unless I mean it.

“Pretty little thing,” I murmur, almost to myself. “Too bad you’re mine now.”

Her breath catches.

There it is—the jolt of fear blooming behind her eyes, blooming fast and red and sharp. She tries to mask it with anger, with defiance, but it’s too late. I already saw it, and it’s beautiful.

She swallows hard. “You can’t keep me here.”

I smile, big and broad, making sure she can see nothing but me . “Can’t I?”

“You’ll get caught,” she snaps, voice cracking at the edge. “Someone will look for me.”

I watch her carefully. “Who?”

That stops her. The silence that follows is thick. Her jaw clenches. She looks away.

I lean back slightly, lowering my hand, giving her space. Letting her fill it with dread. It’s a dance I know well. The silence always speaks louder than the threats.

Her knuckles are white where her hands flex in the rope. She’s testing it. Measuring. Good. I like the ones who fight.

Still, I can see the tears start to well at the corners of her eyes. She blinks them back quickly, angry at herself for it.

“You were in the wrong place,” I say. “You saw what you weren’t meant to see. That’s all this is.”

“No,” she says, voice tight. “You’re wrong. I wasn’t following anyone. I wasn’t looking for anything. I was just… just trying to get out of the rain.”

“Bad luck,” I reply.

“That’s not fair.”

I meet her gaze again. “Fair doesn’t matter.”

That shuts her up.

For a moment, all I hear is the quiet drip of rain outside and the steady pulse of her breathing. She still doesn’t cry. That surprises me. Most people do. Especially when they realize they’re alone with someone like me, in a place like this.

She glares up at me, jaw tense. “If you’re going to kill me, then just do it.”

I raise a brow. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” she hisses, “but you clearly enjoy drawing it out.”

I laugh then, loud in the otherwise quiet room. She’s not wrong, but it’s not death I’m interested in. Not tonight.

I reach out again and brush a strand of hair from her cheek. She recoils from the touch, but there’s nowhere for her to go.

“You’re not what I expected,” I say.

“Yeah, well you’re a psychopath.”

I grin. “Probably.”

Her lips press into a thin line. She looks exhausted and frightened, but even now she doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. I can’t decide if that makes her brave, or stupid.

I straighten up and step back, eyes never leaving her face. The fear is still there, lurking beneath her anger, and I let her sit in it. Let it soak into her bones for long enough for her to start wondering what comes next.

She shifts in the chair again, wrists tugging at the rope, testing the slack with more precision now. Not panic. Calculation. I recognize it, the slow tilt from fear to strategy. She’s still terrified, but she’s starting to plan around it.

I don’t stop her. Let her try.

Her eyes track me as I move to the small metal table near the wall, pick up the notebook from her bag, and flip through it one more time.

The pages are water-damaged now, some of the pencil sketches smudged beyond recognition.

I find one that’s still mostly intact—two figures drawn in a diner booth, heads bowed together, one hand reaching across the table.

It’s rough, fast, but there’s care in it.

“You draw everyone you see?” I ask, turning the page without looking at her.

She doesn’t answer.

I glance over my shoulder. “Or just the stuff you find interesting?”

“I didn’t draw you,” she says coldly.

“No, I suppose you didn’t get the chance. I bet I’d look good in this little notebook; I wonder how I look through your eyes?”

She tenses. I see the movement in her shoulders before she even realizes she gave something away. I set the notebook down and walk back toward her. The chair creaks as she leans back, but there’s nowhere for her to go.

“You’re a watcher,” I say. “Not the kind that makes a lot of noise. The kind that sees too much. Slips in. Stays quiet, and people forget you were even there.”

She flinches, just barely. Enough.

“You make up stories about them,” I continue. “Strangers. People on the street. You build little lives in your head and scribble them down like they belong to you.”

She looks up at me, sharp now. “You read my notebook?”

I smile. “Of course I did. Though it’s not nearly as interesting as this sketchbook here.”

“That’s private.”

“So is a man getting his brains blown out in a warehouse. But you watched that too.”

Her mouth opens, then shuts. Her expression crumbles just for a second—one heartbeat of real, crushing horror before she pulls herself together again.

“I wasn’t supposed to be there,” she mutters.

“No. You weren’t.”

The silence stretches between us like wire, tight and fragile.

She exhales, long and slow. “So what now?”

I consider her for a moment. My thumb brushes the corner of the table absently. “That depends on you.”

“You said I’m a problem.”

“You are.”

“Then fix it.”

Her defiance almost makes me laugh. She’s shaking—she probably doesn’t even know she is—but she stares me down like she has a say in how this ends. There’s a heat behind her fear, and I like it more than I should.

“I haven’t decided what to do with you,” I say. “Not yet.”

Her brows draw together. “Why not?”

Good question.

I don’t answer. Not because I’m trying to scare her, but because I don’t know. Not exactly. There’s no logic in this. I should have ended it the moment I saw her face. But I didn’t, and now we’re here, both of us stuck in a moment that shouldn’t exist.

She looks away, jaw clenched. I let her.

Let her feel the weight of her own breathing. Let her take me in, and realize I have her life in my hands.

I kind of like the way she watches me.