Page 75 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

I defended him. I fought for him.

I risked everything—my body, my soul—believing that he was worth saving, that the world was wrong about him, that Andrei was the monster in this story.

What if the real monster had been smiling down at me all along? What if it was the man who kissed my forehead good night?

The man who taught me to ride a bike, holding the seat until I was steady?

The man whose hands had also pulled a trigger, point-blank, ending a life without hesitation?

The shame cuts first, sharp and clean, flaying open the part of me that still wanted to believe in innocence.

The grief follows next, heavier, uglier. It fills my chest until it’s impossible to breathe.

Then the anger. White-hot. It sears through my ribs, through my spine, until I can’t stand anymore. My legs buckle, and I crumple onto a cold stone bench half hidden by a tangle of ivy, clutching the edge like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.

Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to let them fall. I clench my jaw, digging my nails into the palms of my hands until the sting distracts me from the collapse happening inside.

I need answers, and I need them now. I need to hear it from him—from my father’s own mouth.

I need to ask him if he killed Maxim Sharov, if he built our life on someone else’s blood.

If he destroyed me before I even knew I needed saving.

The garden darkens around me as the sun slips lower, the heavy scent of roses turning sickly in the cooling air. The mansion looms behind me, vast and silent, a cage made of marble and gold.

I push myself up from the bench, legs shaky beneath me, the weight of everything threatening to pull me back down. The mansion looms ahead, all cold stone and shuttered windows, but I force my feet forward.

I have to go inside. I have to find a way to call my father. I have to—

A rough hand clamps over my mouth.

I barely have time to gasp before I’m yanked backward, a hard arm locking around my waist, dragging me into the thicket of hedges near the back entrance. Thorns scratch at my arms as I’m hauled deeper into the shadows, away from the safety of the paths, away from the light spilling from the windows.

Panic claws at me.

I thrash, kicking wildly, but whoever has me is too strong. I can’t scream—the hand over my mouth is too tight, muffling every sound into useless whimpers.

“Don’t fight, Alina,” a low voice hisses in my ear. “Your father sent me. I’m here to get you out.”

The words freeze me solid. I know that voice.

Jackson Waters.

Slick, smiling Jackson. The man who’d cornered me at the party with a drink and an easy grin, the one Andrei had driven away with nothing more than a look.

My pulse hammers harder, almost painful against my ribs. I don’t know whether it’s fear or hope that grips me tighter.

Is he telling the truth?

Jackson eases his grip slightly—enough for me to breathe, enough for me to stumble along as he drags me sideways through the dark garden, keeping close to the crumbling outer wall. His body shields mine from view, moving low and fast, always keeping us away from the pools of light.

“Listen to me,” he mutters urgently, keeping one hand tight around my wrist. “You’re not safe here. He’s not who you think he is.”

The words are like acid in my ears.

He’s not who you think he is.

Neither is my father. Neither is anyone.

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