Page 23 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

She has no idea she’s already surrounded. That every hallway she moves through has already been mapped, every blind turn accounted for, every light calibrated to disorient and distort her sense of time. She doesn’t realize yet that the silence in the house isn’t neglect—it’s curated.

The way she looks over her shoulder? Beautiful.

The way her breath hitches every time a floorboard creaks beneath her feet? Exquisite.

The moment she starts to believe no one’s watching? That’s when she’s the most alive.

I lean one shoulder against the stone wall and close my eyes, listening to the hum of the surveillance feed running low in the background, the faint buzz of the house alive and aware. I imagine her now, curled in that old leather chair, knees pulled to her chest, lips pressed tight, eyes sweeping the room again and again. She’s fighting to stay composed. I saw it in the way shemoved. Like every part of her body is made of wire—delicate but strung tight.

She doesn’t break easily.

That’s what makes this interesting.

Finishing off my drink, I stand. Then I turn, and go in search of Alina. I want to see the look on her face in person, when she realizes she’s trapped.

Chapter Seven - Alina

The house is too quiet.

Each step I take is measured, deliberate, my breath held between clenched teeth. The floor beneath me is polished wood, slick under bare soles, and it muffles the sound of my movement just enough to give me a sliver of confidence. But not enough to settle the sick, pulsing fear in my chest.

Shadows twist along the walls, stretching long and strange with every antique lamp I pass. The air feels too still, like it’s been holding its own breath since the moment I opened that study door. Like the walls know I’m not supposed to be here. Like they’re watching.

I keep moving, out of the study and back down the hallway.

The halls go on forever. Endless corridors lined with doors I don’t dare try. I don’t have time to guess what’s behind them—more locked rooms, maybe guards, maybe worse. Every second I waste could be the difference between freedom and….

I swallow hard, and I don’t finish the thought.

My hands tighten around the edge of the banister as I round another corner, eyes darting from painting to curtain to hallway ahead. Then—just as I’m starting to feel dizzy from the repetition—I see it.

A vast room. Dimly lit. Marble floors and high ceilings. At the far end—framed by towering windows—a grand staircase.

Leading down.

My breath stutters. Hope cracks through my ribs like lightning.

It might be a foyer. An atrium. The kind of place designed to impress guests before they’re ushered into lies. Right now, it looks like salvation.

My steps quicken, the soft pad of my feet turning into frantic taps as I race for it.

My pulse hammers so loud I barely hear the footsteps until it’s too late.

Then I collide with something solid. Hard. Unmoving. Human.

A gasp leaves my throat before I can catch it.

Not a wall. A body.

Strong hands clamp around my wrists before I can react, forcing them to my sides. Firm. Unyielding. The scent hits me next—smoke and spice, whiskey and cold leather. Familiar now. Terrifying.

I tilt my head back, slowly. Dread curdles in my stomach.

Andrei.

His face is calm. Too calm. His eyes catch the faint glow of the chandelier overhead—dark, unreadable. His mouth doesn’t move. His jaw doesn’t tense. He looks at me like this moment was inevitable. Like he’s been waiting for me to come to him.

Like he knows exactly what I’m going to do before I do it.

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