Page 9 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

“I’m telling you what I see,” she says simply.

I feel something rising in me, something hot and unfamiliar. Not just fear. Not just rage. Helplessness.

“So what happens now?” I ask. “I stay here? You all keep pretending this is normal while I eat off silver and try on dresses for a wedding I didn’t agree to?”

“If you’re smart,” she says, “you’ll adapt. You’ll use it.”

“Use it?”

“This protection. This space you’ve been given. He has made a public claim. That comes with power, and with safety.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

She folds the final towel. “Then I suggest you don’t test how far that safety stretches.”

I look down at my lap. My fingers have curled into the silk at my thighs, knuckles white, the fabric bunching under my nails.

“He said nothing to me,” I whisper. “Not about this.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Lidia says. “He will, in time.”

I force myself to meet her gaze. “If I say no?”

She hesitates. “Then I truly hope he likes you more than he has liked anyone else.”

She turns then, quiet as ever, and leaves the room. The door clicks shut behind her.

I don’t move for a long time.

I stare at my hands, at the trembling of my fingers, at the soft silk bunched between them. I sit in this golden cage with its velvet cushions and glass mirrors, and I feel more trapped than I ever did in the basement.

“He must like you a lot.”

I don’t want him to, but I already know that in this world, what I want doesn’t matter.

I sit on the bed for a long time after Lidia leaves.

The room has gone quiet again, but now the silence feels tighter. I feel like I’m just counting each second until something shifts. The silk robe they gave me feels too soft against my skin, the carpet too plush beneath my feet, and it all scratches against my nerves like wool.

Eventually, I push myself to stand.

I need to move. I need to do something with my hands, with my body, before the helplessness curdles into panic. The en suite is still warm from earlier, the faint scent of lavender and steam clinging to the marble tile. The faucet squeaks slightly when I turn it. The tub fills quickly.

I undress slowly, my fingers hesitant, as if the act might invite someone to burst in. When no one does, I step into the bath and sink beneath the water, letting the heat climb my body until it stings my skin in the most welcome way.

It burns away the numbness.

The bruises on my wrists still throb, more tender now than raw. I run my fingers over them absently. The red has faded into purple, then yellow in places. They almost look old now. Like the pain belonged to someone else.

I stay in the bath until my skin wrinkles, until the heat turns tepid. When I climb out, I wrap myself in the thick robe left folded by the vanity and towel-dry my hair without looking in the mirror. I’m not ready to face the girl who looks back at me yet.

When I step out of the bathroom, it takes me a moment to realize something is wrong.

Someone is in the room.

A man, tall and broad-shouldered, stands near the window with his back to me. His coat is charcoal gray and fitted perfectly, every movement sleek and intentional. He turns before I can say anything, and I freeze.

This isn’t Kion.

He faces me with calm, unreadable eyes and a face cut from sharp edges. There’s nothing gentle in his posture, nothing warm in his presence. He looks like he belongs in a boardroom or a battlefield. Either would suit him.

“Good,” he says, as if we’re picking up a conversation we never started. “You’re awake.”

My hand tightens around the robe’s belt instinctively. “Who the hell are you?”

He steps away from the window, slow and deliberate, as though too much motion might shatter the illusion of civility he’s wearing. “Name’s Yuri. I work with Kion. You could call me his right hand, or his shadow. Depends who’s asking.”

I don’t answer. I don’t want to ask anything, because I want him gone.

He takes in the room like he owns it. His gaze drifts across the untouched lunch tray, the folded clothes left on the foot of the bed, then back to me.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “Cooperative. That’s good, but I wanted to come say a few words before that changes.”

I stiffen. “Changes?”

His mouth twitches—something too slight to be a smile. “We’ve been patient. Kion, more than anyone. He’s been generous with you.”

“I didn’t ask him to be generous.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you benefited from it anyway.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”

Yuri clasps his hands behind his back, posture military-straight. “To offer you advice. Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“Advice.”

“Do as you’re told.”

The words are quiet, but they cut like glass. I stay where I am, the soft carpet warm under my feet, the robe now suddenly too thin. My heart beats faster, but I keep my face still.

“And if I don’t?” I ask.

His gaze sharpens, the civility slipping for just a second. “Then you don’t have to worry about Kion.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He steps closer, slowly, not enough to invade, but enough to press weight behind the words. “He wants you safe. He wants you… alive. That means he’s been lenient. That leniency only stretches so far.”

“You’re threatening me,” I say flatly.

“I’m informing you,” Yuri replies. “If you forget your place, it won’t be him you’ll answer to. It’ll be me, and I am not sentimental.”

My pulse kicks harder. “I’m not trying to cause problems.”

“That’s smart,” he says. “Stay smart.”

I grit my teeth. “You think I wanted this? I was just trying to survive.”

He studies me, cool and calm. “Then keep doing that.”

He turns to leave, pauses at the door. “Eat your lunch,” he adds. “You’ll need the strength.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I mutter.

He faces me again fully. “No one’s asking what you want. That’s not how this works.”

“Then why pretend?” I snap, voice rising. “Why the robes, the food, the silk sheets? Why not just throw me in a cell and be done with it?”

He takes a step closer, eyes cold. “Because Kion wants you cooperative, not broken.”

“It doesn’t feel that way, sometimes.”

“Well, it’s true whether you believe it or not.”

I stare at him, trembling with something I don’t have a name for—fury, grief, sheer disbelief. “You talk like this is all normal.”

He shrugs. “It is, at least for us.”

His eyes drop to the untouched tray. “Eat.”

“Or what?” I whisper.

His reply is quiet. “Or I feed you myself.”

The air between us tightens.

I don’t know if he means it. I don’t want to find out. My feet move before I make the choice, crossing the room. I sit stiffly in the chair by the table and reach for the fork, my hands still shaking.

Yuri watches until I take the first bite.

Only then does he move again, slow and purposeful, to sit in the chair across from me. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look away.

He’s not leaving, not until the tray is clean.