Page 83 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

The air is stale and heavy, laced with the faint, sickly scent of mildew and old rot. Dust coats every surface, dulling what little furniture remains. The walls are stained and peeling, shadows swallowing every corner the weak light can’t reach.

I hug my arms around myself, my skin crawling.

This is wrong. All of this is wrong.

Jackson moves ahead without hesitation, boots echoing hollowly across the warped floorboards. He stops a few feet inside, and I catch the slight tension in his shoulders—the way his gaze flickers toward the shadows near the back of the house.

Movement. A figure steps out from the darkness.

Not my father. Not anyone I recognize.

A man, tall and broad, with a smile that cuts like broken glass.

“Matías,” Jackson says and steps aside.

It hits me—Matías Ortega.

I’ve heard the name whispered before—in fear, in disgust. One of the cartel leaders Andrei’s men have fought for years. Ruthless. Unpredictable. A man whose hands are stained with blood thicker than water.

Horror crashes through me.

This isn’t rescue; this isn’t salvation.

This is a nightmare.

I turn toward Jackson, confusion and terror surging up my throat.

He doesn’t look at me, not really. Instead, he exchanges a brief, familiar glance with Matías—and then I see it.

The money.

Matías slips a thick envelope into Jackson’s hand, fast and efficient, like a business transaction. Like a sale.

Realization slams into me, cold and sickening.

Jackson was never on my side. He was never here to save me.

He was here to deliver me.

My voice breaks as I whisper, “You used me.”

Jackson shrugs, utterly indifferent, as he tucks the envelope into his jacket. “No hard feelings,” he says lazily, like we’re discussing a missed dinner date, not the fact that he just sold me to a monster.

Then he turns and walks out the door without another word.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind him leaves me standing alone in the stale dark, surrounded by strangers and the unmistakable scent of betrayal.

Matías circles me like a vulture scenting fresh blood.

His boots drag deliberately across the warped floorboards, each step measured, slow, calculated for effect. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. The smirk curling across his face says everything—he’s in complete control, and he knows it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes sweeping me from head to toe like I’m something delicate and breakable. “Here I thought Bratva girls would be tougher.”

I say nothing, but my breath comes faster.

He’s not a large man—not like Andrei—but there’s something off in the way he moves, in the way his eyes glitter too bright in the dark. It’s like standing in the room with a snake, waiting for it to strike.

“Princesa,” he says, the word wrapped in mockery, drawn out like a purr. “You don’t belong in this world, you know. All soft hands and scared little eyes. What did you think this was? A fairy tale?” He laughs, low and sharp. “You were the reward. The princess locked in the tower. The thing he couldn’t resist ruining.”

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