Page 69 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Alina, barefoot and furious, descending the grand staircase during the celebration. The silk of her robe clinging to her curves, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide but unbowed. She didn’t realize what she was walking into. Didn’t realize that every man saw her.

Desired her. Coveted her. In her innocence, her complete lack of calculation, she owned the space.

My hand tightens around the glass until it creaks under the strain. I force myself to ease up before it shatters.

I had wanted to tear Jackson Waters apart that night. Still want to.

The image of him leaning in close, speaking to her like she was available, like she was something he could have, still makes my blood boil.

No one touches what’s mine. No one even looks.

The jealousy burns, but there’s more beneath it—something harder to name. Something colder.

Fear.

Not fear of losing face. Fear of losing her.

Of her slipping through my fingers before I’ve fully claimed her. Before she understands who she belongs to, before she understands that her life—her very existence—is tied to mine now, whether she wants it or not.

I lean back, exhaling slowly, the tension in my muscles refusing to fade.

I will not lose her. I will not let her go.

Whatever it takes, whatever lines I have to cross, I’ll keep her tethered so close she’ll forget what it ever felt like to be free.

I lift the glass at last, the vodka burning a sharp, clean line down my throat. The bite is welcome.

It grounds me, slices through the haze of useless reflection. It’s time to stop thinking. Time to start moving.

I set the glass down with a soft thud, the decision already crystallizing in my mind. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial without hesitation.

Dima answers on the first ring.

“Boss,” he says, his voice low and steady.

Good. Always ready. Always listening.

“Watch Jackson Waters,” I say. My voice is sharp, cutting through the stagnant air of the office. “I want to know every step he takes. Every word he speaks.”

There’s a beat of silence—hesitation, barely there.

Then Dima clears his throat. “Already started digging, Andrei. Figured you’d want it.”

I lean back in the chair, smoke still curling lazy shapes above the desk. My free hand drums once against the wood, a silent signal to continue.

“Waters has history with Richard Carter,” Dima says. “Goes back years. Legitimate business—import-export, mostly. Shell companies, off-book deals. Nothing illegal we can prove. Nothing clean either.”

I clench my jaw. “Loyalty?” I ask.

Dima hesitates again, and that tells me everything I need before he even speaks. “Hard to say. Carter trusted him once. Might’ve even mentored him. Waters is an opportunist. He’s not here for friendship.”

I close my eyes for a moment, piecing it together.

Jackson didn’t stumble into my world by accident. He came looking. For Alina. For leverage. For something he thinks he can gain—or steal.

“So?” I say, voice dropping lower.

“So?” Dima’s voice hardens. “He’s calling himself an ally. Says he has information. Claims he can help.”

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