Page 6 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

The air in the room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into skin and settles in bone.

Smoke coils upward from a dozen burning cigarettes, thickening the already suffocating silence.

The long table stretches between them like a battlefield, and every man seated at it wears the same grim mask of authority.

They stare at me as if I’ve already failed them.

Yuri is the first to break.

He slams his fist against the table, loud enough that a glass rattles in its saucer. His voice follows hard and sharp, slicing through the haze. “She cannot live. This is not up for debate. You bring her here, and now you hesitate to clean up your own mess?”

I say nothing at first. I let the silence sit. Let them fill it with their anger, their posturing, their noise. I stand at the center of the room, arms crossed, back straight, giving them nothing.

Sometimes it’s fun to watch them squirm, to make them sit in silence with all of the attention on me.

One of the others leans forward, folding his hands. His tone is measured, but the warning is clear beneath it. “You know what happens when outsiders see what she saw. If we allow this—if we let her walk free—it opens a door we cannot close.”

Another man grunts in agreement, tapping ash into a crystal tray. “Loose ends are dangerous, Kion. You know that better than most.”

I do. They all know I do.

Still, I remain silent.

They speak of tradition, of order, of the old rules written before any of them sat at this table. They speak of blood. They speak of duty. Their words swirl together like smoke, indistinct and repetitive, trying to corner me with their weight.

None of it matters. My mind is already made up.

I snort, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Please. The only thing open around here is your mouth, and I’m about five seconds from shutting that too.”

The room goes still for half a second. Then the murmurs start.

Yuri narrows his eyes at me. “You don’t get to say no. Not to this. Not when it threatens the entire structure.”

“She is not a threat,” I reply with a theatrical roll of my eyes.

“She’s a witness.”

“She is mine, so shut up.”

That quiets them again.

I step forward, letting my boots echo against the tile. The silence deepens. My gaze sweeps across the men seated before me, each of them trained to read weakness, to smell it in the air. I give them none.

“I am claiming her,” I say with a wicked look. “Under Bratva law.”

Someone exhales sharply. Another swears beneath his breath. A third mutters, “You’re joking.”

I ignore them.

“Bratva law or not, anyone lays a hand on her, they answer to me. Try me if you’re feeling brave.”

“This is madness,” Yuri says, standing. “You would tie yourself to a stranger? To a liability?”

I roll my eyes again. “I’d tie myself to a wild animal before I’d let you all dictate who shares my bed. At least she’s got more bite than half of you combined.”

The weight of that lands. They know what I’m doing. I’m not marrying her out of sentiment. I’m drawing a line around her with blood and code. If they go through her, they go through me—and through the foundation they helped create.

“She’s nothing,” one of the younger captains sneers. “Just a girl.”

I meet his gaze. “Then let her mean nothing. Let her live under my name, and keep your hands clean.”

The murmurs rise again, louder now. Some argue, some scoff. Others watch me closely, trying to divine the angle, the purpose beneath the surface. I let them wonder.

“You would risk your position for this?” Yuri asks, voice low and cold.

“I don’t need to risk it,” I reply. “The law is already on my side.”

Yuri, older and slower to speak, clears his throat. “You know what this looks like. It is personal, even if you say it is not. You think the girl can be leveraged, but she could also be used against you.”

“If anyone tries,” I say, “they’ll regret it.”

He studies me for a moment. He has seen what I do when I am crossed. He knows I mean it.

“They will see this as weakness,” another elder murmurs.

“Then let them,” I answer with a shrug. “Let them misunderstand. It will not end well for them.”

They hate it. I can feel it in the air, the tight tension between them, the anger they don’t dare voice. No one expected this. No one knows how to dismantle it without dismantling everything else.

“Break your own rules,” I say, “and I promise, I’ll burn every last one of you down with the house you built. I’m not bluffing—don’t bet your lives that I am.”

That lands hard.

None of them speak after that. They sit in silence, swallowing their protest, their shame, their fear of being the first to break the rules they love to enforce.

I turn and walk out before they can recover. Before their pride claws its way to the surface. The door clicks shut behind me, and I leave them behind in smoke and silence.

The decision is made.

***

The old house is quieter now, when I get home.

The night has settled thick around the building, muting the buzz of the city outside.

Rain clings to the windows in streaks, catching the light in thin silver threads.

Inside, the air carries the low hum of the ventilation system and the faint scent of smoke from a cigar left burning too long earlier in the evening.

I lean against the doorframe, arms folded across my chest.

She hasn’t noticed me yet.

Esme sits curled in the same chair, though she’s shifted since I last saw her.

Her body no longer fights the rope. Her shoulders are hunched, legs pulled tight, head bowed like she’s conserving whatever strength she has left.

Her hair falls forward in damp strands, dark against the pale curve of her cheek.

Then her head lifts.

Her eyes find mine immediately, as if she’s been waiting. The fear is still there—that raw, primal edge that doesn’t fade overnight—but something else lingers behind it now. Something harder to name.

Recognition. Curiosity. Maybe even a hint of defiance.

I don’t speak. I let her look. Let her draw her own conclusions about why I’ve returned, what I want now. Let her look at me, drink me in, and decide what she wants.

Her lips part slightly, like she wants to ask something, but she doesn’t. She stays quiet.

Smart.

I watch her from across the room, and I try—again—to make sense of it. Of her. Of why, when I’ve ended people for less, I’m standing here guarding this stranger like she belongs to me.

She doesn’t look like she belongs to anything I’ve built.

She looks like something soft and unfinished that the world forgot to harden. That contrast, her softness against the rough backdrop of this life, unsettles me more than I want to admit.

I tell myself this is strategic.

That marrying her solves two problems at once.

It gives her protection she wouldn’t otherwise have, and it puts a full stop to the marriage Yuri’s been pushing between me and his too-perfect daughter. That alliance has always been about optics; old money wants to be relevant again. Sokolov’s girl wouldn’t survive a week in my world. Esme might.

Marrying her keeps the council quiet.

It keeps Yuri out of my house, and it keeps her alive. I can live with that.

Behind me, footsteps echo. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

Adrian moves through the hallway like always, silent, sharp, and far too observant for his own good. He steps up beside me, hands in the pockets of his long coat, dark hair still damp from the rain.

He follows my gaze into the room, then leans in slightly. “You planning on feeding her, or just watching her until she starves?”

“She’s not starving.”

“She looks like a stray cat someone forgot to bring inside.”

“She’s fine.”

Adrian huffs a breath. “Fine,” he echoes. “Is that your word now for kidnapped, terrified, and possibly plotting to stab you with a spoon ?”

I don’t answer.

He glances sideways at me. “You still planning to marry her?”

“Obviously. Who would pass up someone so beautiful?” I offer him a quick grin, which he doesn’t return.

He nods once. “That sounds like you. Always ready to pursue the next pretty thing.”

“Is that what you think of me?” I joke.

I let the silence stretch again, then push off the doorframe and start toward her.

She sits up straighter.

I don’t know if it’s fear that makes her spine lock, or instinct, but I see the movement ripple through her shoulders. Still quiet. Still watching.

Adrian stays where he is. His presence is like the edge of a blade resting against my shoulder—always ready, always sharp, but not dangerous until it needs to be.

I stop in front of Esme, watching the way her fingers twitch where they rest against her leg. She’s bracing for something.

“Eat,” I say, nodding toward the tray I brought earlier, still untouched on the side table. “Then we’ll talk.”

She doesn’t ask what about, nor does she reach for the tray.

Her eyes flick toward it, once, then back to me. Her jaw stays tight, shoulders drawn inward, like if she holds herself still enough she might disappear. I can see the hesitation written all over her face. Hunger gnaws at her—her body wants it—but pride keeps her frozen.

I nod to the food again, more pointedly this time. “Eat.”

She doesn’t move.

I step closer, voice low. “You’re not proving anything by starving yourself. You need to stay alive, and that means eating.”

She exhales, sharp through her nose, and finally—slowly—reaches for the tray.

Her fingers shake slightly when she picks up the sandwich. She doesn’t meet my gaze as she takes a bite, chewing stiffly, like she expects the bread to turn to ash in her mouth. I don’t speak while she eats. I just watch.

She finishes half of it, then the fruit. The water goes down last, slower, more cautious. Every movement is small and deliberate. She eats like she thinks it’s a test, like she’s trying to read the rules before she breaks one.

When she finally sets the tray aside, I speak again. “I’m moving you upstairs.”

She stiffens. Her gaze snaps to mine, suspicious. “Why?”