Page 45 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

He’s felt the shift in my breathing, seen the dilation of my eyes. Every sign of weakness I’ve tried to smother is laid bare beneath his gaze.

I hate that it’s working. I hate that some part of me isn’t recoiling. Most of all, I hate that I want to understand what happens if I don’t move. If I let him touch me again.

His touch drags down from my chin with the same deliberate control I’ve seen in every movement he makes—precise, composed, and laced with authority. It doesn’t falter. It doesn’t linger awkwardly. It just moves with the calm confidence of someone who knows the exact impact he’s having, and enjoys every second of it. He traces the line of my neck, a slow descentpast the ridge of my collarbone, until his fingers curl lightly along the slope of my shoulder and down my arm.

It’s not exploration. It’s memorization.

He moves like he’s etching every detail into memory, like each inch of my skin is something to be owned, not discovered. Every nerve lights up beneath his touch, not from pain, but from unbearable attention. As if my body, no matter how hard I try to control it, has already surrendered the truth of its responses.

My breath catches in my throat.

The effort it takes not to react is staggering. My lungs ache from holding in the tremor that wants to escape. My spine stiffens in rebellion against the instinct to lean into him. I want to stay still, want to fight it—but he moves like someone who’s always one step ahead.

His hand trails downward, grazing the inside of my arm, fingers skimming over the soft, sensitive skin just above my elbow. The contact is light, maddening, no firmer than a whisper. But it leaves heat in its wake, the kind of heat that burrows in and lingers.

Then he makes a sound. Low. Almost too quiet to hear. A rumble that vibrates at the base of his throat—half growl, half sigh. It isn’t a word. It doesn’t need to be. The sound isn’t meant to communicate. It’s meant to warn. Or claim.

I want to move away. I think about it—briefly. Just a step. Just enough to clear the space between us.

I can’t. Not because he’s holding me, but because the air between us has solidified, pressed tight with tension so thick it steals the ability to act.

So I close my eyes.

A mistake.

Everything else sharpens. His scent—rich and warm, threaded with whiskey and spice—wraps around me. The sound of his breath, calm and steady, fills my ears. The presence of him, towering and still, becomes unbearable.

My body, despite my resistance, leans in.

It’s subtle. A shift of weight. A tilt. He feels it. I know he does.

He exhales once, near my ear, and my skin prickles in response—raw, aware, humiliated.

I don’t want him to stop.

A sharp knock slices through the room like a blade.

I jolt.

The sound crashes through the haze like a sudden breath of cold air, breaking the tension that had thickened between us until it felt like a noose around my neck. My heart lurches in my chest, adrenaline surging too late to protect me from the damage already done.

Andrei doesn’t move. Not a flicker of surprise crosses his face. He remains as still and composed as he was a moment ago, like he’s known the interruption was coming and timed everything just to see how far I would let him go.

The door opens without waiting for permission.

Dima steps inside, all sharp lines and unreadable eyes. His gaze sweeps across the room with surgical precision, taking in everything—me, still too close to his boss, flushed and breathless; Andrei, unbothered, towering over me like a shadow. For the briefest second, Dima’s eyes meet mine. There’s no sympathy there. No judgment either. Just acknowledgment. Like he sees exactly what happened and knows it’s none of his concern.

“We have a problem,” he says, voice clipped.

That’s all it takes. The spell snaps.

Andrei steps back, his hand dropping away from my arm like it was never there. He turns from me without a word, walking to the desk with the same ease he wore when he first poured his drink. The only sound is the crisp tug of fabric as he adjusts his cuffs—straightening them, smoothing himself out like he’s shedding the moment.

His smirk ruins the illusion.

It’s not obvious. It’s small. Barely there. Just the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth as he reaches for his jacket.

But it’s enough. It says everything.

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