Page 102 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

It’s strange, how full the days can feel.

How ordinary.

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Andrei

The night is cool, the air heavy with the scent of rain and earth.

I lean against the doorway of the balcony, half shrouded in shadow, watching her.

Alina stands at the railing, her back to me, arms folded loosely atop the stone. Her hair stirs with the breeze, strands catching the moonlight, turning to fire and silk. She’s barefoot, wearing one of my shirts, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, careless and perfect and mine.

She hums quietly under her breath—nothing recognizable. Just a sound. A peace I still don’t know how to name.

I watch her, silent, drinking in the sight like a dying man hoarding water.

She is my one weakness.

The one pressure point no enemy could have predicted. No strategist could have planned for. No part of me could have armored against.

I fought it. Christ, how I fought it.

For months, I told myself she was leverage. That she was convenience. A pawn. A symbol.

I made excuses in my mind, ruthless and logical.

Except, every time she looked at me—really looked at me—another wall cracked. Every time she touched me without fear, every time she smiled like I hadn’t broken her, like she didn’t flinch from the monster standing two steps away, something inside me crumbled.

I watch her now, framed by the night sky, and the weight in my chest is almost unbearable.

I have killed for less.

I step forward, the boards creaking slightly under my feet.

She hears me. She always does. Alina turns, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth—unafraid, unsurprised.

“You’re brooding again,” she says lightly, teasing.

I grunt, moving to stand beside her, one hand braced against the cold stone railing. The night air cools the skin of my bare arms. She doesn’t move away. She leans into my side with the casual trust that still guts me when I least expect it.

“Thinking,” I correct.

She tilts her head, considering me with those clear green eyes that see too much. “Dangerous habit,” she says.

“For me?” I murmur. “Probably.”

She laughs—a low, genuine sound—and the knot in my chest tightens until it aches.

I would raze kingdoms before I let harm touch her again.

“You were mine the moment I saw you,” I say, the words escaping before I can temper them.

She looks up at me, a flicker of emotion crossing her face—something soft, something broken open.

Ownership first. Love followed.

I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought possession was enough, but I was wrong.

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