Page 22 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

She doesn’t know what her father is. Not really. She doesn’t know what he did, who he betrayed. The blood he sold to protect his own empire.

Still, I don’t hate her for wearing his name. Not the way I thought I would.

“She’ll try again,” Dima says, stepping back from the monitor. “Sooner or later. They always do.”

“She should.”

“You want her broken?”

I don’t answer.

She’s valuable if she bends. Interesting if she resists. Except, if she breaks—if she shatters—I don’t know what I’ll be left holding. A girl I can use, or just another ruined thing in a long list of them.

I finish the second glass. Set it down. “Let her sit there awhile,” I say. “Then bring her to me.”

Dima nods once, silent. He leaves without another word.

I turn back to the screen, watching as she lowers herself slowly into the desk chair. She folds her arms over her stomach and pulls her legs up, trying to make herself smaller.

The fire crackles behind me, the sound soft and distant, like memory.

I wonder for the first time—what it would feel like if she chose to stay.

I rise from the chair slowly, letting the creak of old leather fill the silence behind me. The fire snaps once more, its glow casting long, shifting shadows against the stone walls. I roll my shoulders as I walk toward the comm panel embedded in the side of the bookshelf—an old design, discreet and wired to the private channels that don’t show up in the main logs.

Two guards are on the rotation in this wing tonight. Mikhail and Rolan. Reliable. Silent.

I press the button and speak calmly. “She’s in the study. East hall. I want eyes on her.”

Mikhail’s voice answers almost instantly. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep distance,” I add, pulling on the edge of my sleeve to adjust the cuff link. “Don’t approach her yet. Let her think she’s alone.”

A beat. Then Rolan’s voice comes through, quieter. “You want her watched but not touched?”

“Exactly.”

The connection clicks off with no further question. That’s why I keep them—no questions.

I pace slowly to the side window and glance out into the woods. The trees sway gently in the breeze, moonlight streaking pale silver across the lawn. Beyond them, the road is long gone. No lights. No traffic. Just wilderness.

No way out, but she doesn’t know that yet.

That’s the fun of it.

Let her feel like she has a chance. Let her breathe a little easier. Let her taste the illusion of safety, just enough to begin plotting again. I want her to walk circles in that room, to run her fingers along the bookshelves and wonder if one of them hides a mechanism, a trigger, a key. I want her to search the desk again. Check the drawers. Try the handle.

Only for it to be locked when she finally tries to leave.

She needs to feel clever first. Empowered. Free.

That’s the part I enjoy.

The part where they believe they’ve beaten you—right before they learn you’ve been letting them play all along.

It’s not just about control. Not really.

It’s the game.

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