Page 97 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

The grief, the guilt, the years of fury and silence—they bleed out into the space between us. Quiet. Heavier than words. He was dead. I buried him. I built a life of vengeance over the grave of a lie.

When I finally pull back, I look him full in the face—older, harder, scarred. But him.

Still him.

“No one will ever touch you again,” I say, voice scraped raw. “Not while I breathe.”

Maxim doesn’t nod. He doesn’t need to. His eyes say enough. He understands the promise for what it is—absolute. Unbreakable.

Behind us, the room shifts. The tension finally begins to exhale. Dima steps forward, his usual smirk nowhere in sight. He looks between us like he’s seeing ghosts layered over flesh.

He clears his throat once. Still hoarse. Still shaken. “What happens now?”

I don’t hesitate. “Now?” I repeat, letting the word settle like a weight. “We take back everything that was stolen.”

My gaze sweeps over the blood, the broken men, the carnage we’ve waded through to get here.

“We bury the rest.”

Dima nods once.

Outside, the storm has eased into a slow drizzle. Dawn bleeds weak gold through the clouds, casting everything in gray.

Bratva soldiers move like shadows—dragging bodies, reloading magazines, checking the perimeter. They don’tquestion. They don’t speak unless ordered. The machine resets itself, even in the aftermath.

Alina stands just beyond the ruined doorway, arms wrapped around herself, rain softening the soot in her hair. Her eyes track everything—quiet, alert, still processing.

It’s not the blood she’s looking at.

It’s us.

Her gaze moves between me and Maxim like she’s watching a myth unfold in real time.

***

When we arrive home, the room is quiet—soft with the sound of rain trailing down the windows in streaks that catch the warm amber light from the bedside lamps. The walls are dark wood, old and clean, the space orderly despite the chaos of the last few days. Everything smells of cedar, smoke, and blood.

My blood.

I sit on the edge of the bed, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, body stiff and aching. My back throbs, hot and sharp where the bullet tore too close to the ribs. The side wound I managed—taped it, sealed it. But this one—this one is a bastard. Deep, high, just beneath the left shoulder blade. Out of reach.

I grit my teeth and try again, fingers slick, clumsy.

The antiseptic stings. The gauze won’t hold.

I hiss, a curse escaping under my breath.

Fuck.

It’s not the pain—it’s the helplessness. The humiliation of fumbling with something I’d usually handle without blinking. My patience is thin. My hands tremble with fatigue, adrenaline finally crashing into the exhaustion beneath it. The bullet didn’t kill me, but it’s cutting a victory lap through my muscles now.

The door creaks.

I turn sharply, halfway to reaching for the pistol still holstered on the nightstand, but it’s Alina.

She steps inside without a word, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

She doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t speak. Just walks toward me, slow and deliberate, her gaze sweeping over the blood on my back. Her bare feet make no sound across the polished floor. Her expression is unreadable—something careful and calm hiding all the things she’s too smart to say out loud.

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