Page 7 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

“No,” I cut in. “She’s your legacy. Your last move. Your last lie.”

I rise slowly, leaving him where he lies—broken, half buried in the wreckage of the future he tried to steal.

He watches me like he knows it’s the end.

Not because he’s bleeding out, or because I’ve got a gun in my hand. No. He knows it because I’m not in a hurry. I’m not breathing hard, not flinching, not shaking. That’s what breaks men like him—not the moment the bullet comes, but the moment they realize it might never come.

When they realize you’re going to keep them.

I step back from the wreck, eyes still locked on his. Then I nod once toward the shadows behind me.

“Get him in the car.”

The Bratva doesn’t travel light. Two men emerge from the dark, faceless beneath rain-soaked hoods, moving in perfect sync. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. They drag Carter out with practiced hands, not careful, not quick, just efficient. One yanks his arm, the other pulls his leg free from the wreckage with a sickening crack. He screams. Good.

He’s alive.

They haul him into the back of my vehicle—reinforced doors, blacked-out windows, the kind of car that disappears even when people see it. His body hits the floor with a heavy thud. His breath comes in short, wet gasps. One of the men looks at me.

“Still breathing.”

“Make sure he stays that way.”

The drive back to Carter’s estate is long and quiet. No one speaks. I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Every turn is deliberate. Every mile a countdown.

Carter groans in the backseat, drifting in and out of consciousness. I don’t bother looking at him. He’s not worth watching yet.

His estate rises from the forest like something out of myth—gated, secluded, surrounded by tall trees and silence. The guards open the wrought-iron gates without hesitation. The car slips through like a whisper.

Inside, the lights are low and warm, golden against the polished stone. Not welcoming. Just theatrical.

I park beside the front entrance. The men drag Carter out, his head lolling, shirt soaked through with rain and blood. His shoes are gone, one foot twisted unnaturally. He’s shivering.

Good. Let him feel small here. Let him see what power really looks like.

They haul him through the grand foyer, all marble and chandeliers, and throw him to his knees at the center of the room.

The doors shut behind us with a heavy, echoing thud.

Carter groans again, head bobbing forward.

I walk slowly toward him, my coat dripping water across the polished floor. One of the guards steps forward, offers a towel. I ignore it.

Let the rain cling to me. Let it feel like a funeral.

Carter lifts his head. There’s blood in his eye. A tooth missing. His breathing is uneven, face pale.

“You think this makes you a man?” he rasps.

“No,” I say, unbuttoning my coat.

He tries to speak again, but I grab him by the jaw and pull him upright. His neck strains, muscles twitching under my grip.

“This is the part where you beg,” I tell him.

“I’ll never beg for you.”

“So you claim.”

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