Page 81 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Jackson always was smarter at running than standing his ground.

I clench the phone tightly before sliding it into my pocket.

I know what every man here expects. Orders. Delegation. A team sent to intercept him, retrieve Alina, bring her back to the fortress I built.

I make my decision before any of them can speak.

I won’t send others. I will go myself.

This isn’t business anymore; this is personal.

Every beat of my heart drives the point home. Every memory of Alina—the heat of her skin, the defiance in her eyes, the way she whispered my name when she thought she hated me—burns hotter than the last.

Jackson didn’t just steal a bargaining chip.

He touched what’s mine. He tore open a wound I spent a decade stitching closed.

I turn to my men, meeting each set of eyes in turn.

“Follow,” I say simply.

No more words are needed. They fall in behind me without hesitation, their steps quiet but sure, weapons tucked against their bodies, coats pulled tight against the rain.

We move toward the waiting cars, the night folding around us like a cloak.

As I step outside, the rain beads on my skin, cold and immediate, but I barely feel it. The wind cuts through the courtyard, tugging at the edges of my jacket.

I pause at the threshold for a single breath.

Then I reach into my inside pocket and draw out the photograph of Maxim.

It’s creased now, worn from too many years of handling, the edges soft and frayed. His smiling face blurs slightly under the thin sheen of rain, but the emotion behind it is still clear.

Pride. Brotherhood. A life that was stolen.

I tuck the photo carefully back into my jacket, pressing it close to my heart where it belongs.

I holster my gun with one smooth, practiced motion, the weight familiar and necessary at my side.

Then I climb into the waiting car, the engine rumbling to life beneath me, and drive straight into the dark.

Chapter Twenty-Three – Alina

The car hums low beneath me, the tires whispering over slick asphalt as we wind farther into the night.

Outside, darkness devours everything—the road twisting in narrow, unfamiliar arcs, the misty rain blurring what few distant lights there are until the world feels stripped bare. No cities. No towns. Just empty, yawning blackness and the skeletal shapes of trees leaning close, as if they’re watching.

Inside the car, the air grows heavier with every passing mile.

The cabin smells faintly of rain-soaked leather and the sharp, almost metallic scent of wet pavement. It’s too quiet, too still. Every breath I draw feels thick and strained, catching in my chest like smoke.

I keep my hands locked tight in my lap, nails digging crescent moons into the soft skin of my palms.

My stomach twists, a painful knot tightening with every mile marker we pass.

I force myself to speak, scraping together whatever courage I have left. My voice is steady, somehow, even as my insides quiver.

“Take me to my father.”

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