Page 16 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Adrian is silent for a beat too long. The implication hangs in the air. I can picture his expression: impassive, patient, assessing. The pause stretches, becomes a challenge. Before he can answer, I step forward, willing my steps to sound even, my voice steady.
“I have those documents you asked for,” I say, soft but clear. “I thought it couldn’t wait until morning.”
Both of them turn. Yelena’s expression hardens, the lines around her mouth going taut. Her eyes slide over me, full of cold appraisal. For a moment she says nothing, the silence sharp as broken glass.
Adrian’s gaze moves from Yelena to me, then back again, weighing something private behind his calm surface.
I hold the files out to him, as if I don’t notice the tension. “It’s the updated security protocols and staff schedules. I wasn’t sure which you needed, so I brought both.”
There’s a long pause, and I feel it: the weight of Yelena’s possessiveness, the way Adrian’s attention pivots between us. For a moment, it’s as if the rest of the world falls away, the corridor reduced to the three of us, locked in some silent negotiation I can’t quite read.
Adrian takes the folder, flipping through the top sheet with a practiced glance. “Thank you, Talia,” he says, voice even. “Come inside.”
He turns to open the door to his study, the invitation clear and deliberate. Yelena’s jaw tightens. She draws herself up, gathering all the hauteur the Chernikovs bred into her.
“Of course she gets priority,” she says, voice sweet but brittle, each word an icicle. Her heels click against the marble as she turns and strides away, spine stiff, head high. I wonder if she means for me to hear her last remark—or if she’s just stopped caring whether I do.
I follow Adrian into the study, the door clicking softly shut behind me. The quiet is thick, but somehow easier to breathe in than the air outside. I force myself not to glance back at the door, not to shrink or falter. I have his attention now. I need to use it.
He gestures to a chair across from his desk, settling himself behind a stack of papers. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just studies the files, flipping pages slowly. The room smells of leather and old books, the scent oddly grounding.
I smooth my skirt, feeling the adrenaline ebb as I let myself sit. I keep my chin up, posture steady, refusing to fidget.
Adrian finally speaks, his voice quieter, more thoughtful than I expect. “You timed that perfectly.”
I shrug, as if it means nothing. “I thought you’d want to see the new protocols before morning. There are some discrepancies in the guest logs I wanted to flag.”
He meets my gaze. For a moment, I can see the calculation in his eyes, the way he measures words and silences, the way he searches for what isn’t being said. “And what would you have done if I said it could wait?”
“I’d have found another excuse,” I admit, keeping my tone neutral but honest. “Sometimes it’s better to bring a problem straight to the source.”
A faint smile touches his lips. It’s almost imperceptible, but there. “You’re not like the others,” he says. It’s not a compliment, just an observation.
I let myself hold his gaze. “Neither are you.”
The silence stretches again, but it’s different now. Less brittle, more electric. There’s an understanding in the air, something shifting, unstable.
He looks away first, refocusing on the documents. “You can stay and help, if you’d like.”
I nod, rolling my chair closer, already unzipping my laptop bag. I feel Yelena’s presence receding, a shadow left behind in the hallway. For once, I’m not content to be background noise. I want to be seen. I want him to see me.
We work together in companionable quiet, our thoughts overlapping in the hush of paper and keystrokes. Every so often, I catch Adrian watching me, curiosity glinting in his eyes. I don’t look away.
Tonight, for the first time, I feel the balance tip just a little. I don’t know if it’s victory or danger, but I want to see where it leads.
The clock on Adrian’s desk reads nearly midnight by the time we finish. We work in silence, save for the rustle of paper and the steady clack of laptop keys.
There’s an energy to the quiet: focused, almost charged. I’m aware of his every movement on the other side of the desk, the way he occasionally glances up, the way the lamplight carves shadows along his jaw.
He never gives anything away, but his attention feels like a hand pressed to the small of my back, steadying, testing, waiting for a reaction.
When we reach the last file, I stand, collecting my notes and tucking them into my bag with careful precision. I tell myself I’ll say good night and slip out as quietly as I came in. I don’t want to linger, not when the air feels this tight, this dangerous. As I reach for the door, I sense him moving behind me.
Suddenly he’s there, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He doesn’t touch me, not exactly, but his arm comes up to brace against the wall beside my head, blocking my path with casual, deliberate certainty.
My pulse spikes. I could move, push past him, but I don’t. The door is at my back, his eyes are on me, and I’m caught in the web of his focus.
He says nothing for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s electric, thick with everything we haven’t said. I look up, refusing to drop my gaze. His eyes burn into mine, unreadable, dark and bright at the same time.
