Page 98 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

I should tell her to leave. To give me space. To let it be.

I don’t.

She kneels behind me, legs folded to the side, and gently guides my hand away from the wound. I let her. My palm falls uselessly to my thigh, blood drying on the pads of my fingers.

She picks up the gauze, the antiseptic, the needle and thread I’d dropped.

Her hands are steady. Her first touch makes me flinch—just barely. A soft intake of breath. A tightening of my shoulders.

I don’t move.

She cleans the wound, her fingertips brushing over raw flesh. The sting forces a sharp breath from between my teeth, and I feel her pause—only briefly—before she continues.

No apology. No words at all.

Just the quiet press of cloth, the careful attention to each jagged edge. Her touch is gentle but sure, not hesitant, not afraid. She works like she wants this to hurt less, like she’s determined not to leave me worse than she found me.

My body stays tense beneath her, every muscle locked under the weight of her proximity. The soft glide of her fingersover my spine, the shift of her knees against the bed—it’s nothing and everything at once. The pain, the warmth, the ache in my bones. It all blurs.

She threads the needle. Starts to stitch.

My fists curl into the sheets, and I don’t look at her.

Soon, the wound is clean, the final stitch tied.

Still, Alina doesn’t move.

Her hands rest lightly on my back, the pads of her fingers barely grazing the skin beneath the bandage. Her breath brushes the space between us—uneven now, catching on the silence.

I feel it before she says anything. The shift. The heaviness curling under her ribs. The words trying to find a shape inside her throat.

Then, quietly—almost too soft to hear, “Thank you… for coming for me.”

Her voice trembles. With fear, maybe. Or guilt. Or whatever it is that’s settled between us like smoke refusing to clear.

I turn toward her slowly.

The movement aches, the stitches tug at my skin—but I need to see her. Need to look into her face and know this isn’t just relief speaking. That it’s her. Fully aware. Fully choosing.

Her eyes meet mine. Open. Raw.

My gaze lingers on her mouth, then slides lower—over her collarbone, the flutter of her pulse, the way her breath hitches just slightly when I shift closer.

“Show your gratitude,” I murmur.

It’s not a demand; it’s not even a tease. It’s low. Expectant. A challenge wrapped in want.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. This time, she leans in first.

Her mouth brushes mine—soft, tentative. Then deeper. She kisses me like a secret she’s no longer afraid to tell, her lips parting as her hands rise to my shoulders, cautious near the wound but unhesitating everywhere else.

I let her lead.

Her kiss deepens, and her palms smooth down my chest, mapping every line, every scar like she’s memorizing damage she didn’t cause. Like it matters to her now. Like I matter to her now.

My breath hitches as she urges me gently onto my back, the shift slow, careful not to strain the injury. The bed creaks beneath us, and the rain outside grows heavier against the windows.

She follows the trail of scars with her lips.

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