Page 41 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

I should be thinking about the meeting ahead—the man waiting for me in blood and chains. My thoughts aren’t there.

They’re with her.

Alina. My bride.

She had stood in that dress like she was walking into her own execution. Chin lifted. Mouth tense. Eyes wide—but never broken. The gown wrapped her in light, in purity, in something precious and untouched. That’s the word that echoes loudest now.

Untouched.

I grip the wheel tighter. The memory of her scent clings to my fingertips. That mix of fear and defiance. Warm skin under silk. Her breath catching when I kissed her. The way she didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t just arousal. Not lust, though there’s that too.

It’s possession. Power.

I’ve owned cities. Men. Enemies. I’ve shattered empires with a whisper and watched their kings crawl. Alina Carter? She isn’t a conquest.

She is the undoing I’ve been waiting for.

She’ll sleep beside me, breathe under my rules, live beneath my hand. Not like a prisoner—though she is one—but like something being transformed. Carved. Molded. She doesn’t know it yet, but her fear is only the beginning. When it fades, when confusion sets in and her own body starts to betray her, then the real unraveling will begin.

I’ll let her stew in that tension—let her lie awake in my bed, burning with what she doesn’t understand. Wanting what she thinks she hates. The idea of her begging, asking for it, not with words but with need—that will be worth everything.

The thought alone nearly makes me groan.

I exhale sharply and loosen my grip on the wheel as I turn off the main road.

The city fades behind me, replaced by darkened lots and cold industrial buildings. Security lights blink red across metal siding. A gated fence opens before me without a word.

My focus shifts. The softness—the heat—of Alina begins to retreat into the background.

Ahead, brutality waits. Retribution. The kind I’ve been honing for ten years.

The car rolls to a stop beside the main warehouse, and I step out without haste. My boots strike the wet pavement, the rain falling in a light mist, beading on my jacket. A man nods silently as I pass him, unlocking the side door. No one speaks.

They know better.

Inside, the warehouse is dim. Cold. The only light comes from flickering fluorescent strips high above, casting everything in sterile blue.

I make my way down the iron stairs, each step ringing out into the basement.

The smell hits first. Blood. Sweat. Rot. The scent of time stretching too long inside a room that doesn’t forgive.

It’s familiar. Childhood, in a way. My father had a room like this. Maxim and I used to joke that it smelled like victory. We stopped laughing about it after the third time we couldn’t get someone’s blood off our shoes.

Richard Carter is barely recognizable.

We could have left him to rot in his own home. I was going to, at first, but now I have other plans for him.

He’s tied to a chair, wrists bound, head hanging low. His shirt is soaked with blood and spit and something worse. One eye is swollen shut. His lip is split. His breath comes in shallow pulls.

He’s still conscious, though, which is good. I want him lucid for this.

I walk slowly, letting the sound of my approach fill the space.

He lifts his head at the noise, sluggish. His one good eye strains to focus. It lands on me. And for a moment, the recognition flickers. Not fear. Not yet. Just resignation.

I crouch in front of him. Calm. Steady. Hands resting on my knees.

---