Page 66 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

I close my eyes.

In the heavy, breathless dark, we fall asleep together.

No promises. No forgiveness. Only the quiet truth of her body against mine, and the knowledge that whatever we’ve become, there’s no going back now.

Chapter Nineteen - Alina

I can’t sleep.

The bed is still warm from his body, the sheets tangled around my legs, but my eyes won’t close. Every time I try, I see the party again—the stares, the weight of Andrei’s silence, the way he looked at me like I was something he owned. Even now, with his scent clinging to my skin, the mansion feels colder. Emptier.

Hostile.

I slide from the bed, careful not to make a sound, and wrap a thin robe around myself. My feet are bare again as I slip into the hall, guided by nothing but restlessness and a hollow feeling I can’t shake.

The corridors stretch on in silence, dimly lit by sconces and the occasional flicker of moonlight through the high, narrow windows. Stone floors. Gilded moldings. Glass chandeliers that don’t sparkle anymore—they glint like teeth in the dark.

Everything in this house is pristine. Unwelcoming. A palace built not for comfort, but power.

I pass closed doors, rooms I’ve never been allowed to see. Paintings stare down from the walls, cold and expensive, every one of them carefully chosen to match the image this place projects. There’s nothing human in them. No warmth. No history. Just money.

Then—voices.

Raised. Sharp. Male.

Russian-accented, harsh and clipped. Not the smooth control Andrei always wields, but something raw. Violent.

A crash follows—glass or metal, I can’t tell. Then the scrape of a chair, the bark of an order. My heart stutters.

Something’swrong.

I move without thinking, following the sound.

Each step is slow, my body tense with dread. My breath stays tight in my chest. I should turn around. I know that. Whatever’s happening, it’s not meant for me. But something keeps pulling me forward. Curiosity. Fear. Or maybe just the need to understand the man who now sleeps in my bed.

Andrei’s office door is ajar.

Just barely.

I stop, pressing my back to the wall, then lean forward—quiet, careful—until I can see through the narrow sliver of space.

He’s there.

Standing tall, all in black, the lines of his body sharp enough to cut. His face is carved from fury—jaw clenched, mouth a thin, grim line. His eyes burn.

Several men stand before him like statues, silent, backs rigid with tension.

One man kneels on the floor.

His lip is split. Blood runs down his chin, dripping onto the rug beneath him. His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling in short, frantic bursts.

Andrei speaks in Russian. Low. Lethal.

I don’t need to understand the words, the gun in his hand says enough.

Andrei raises the gun.

His arm is steady, unnervingly still. His fury isn’t loud—it’s worse than that. It’s cold. Controlled. Like ice pressed to the skin, the kind that burns through restraint, through reason.The man on the floor trembles, but no one moves. The silence is absolute.

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