Page 17 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Finally, he speaks, voice pitched low enough that it feels like a secret. “You’re starting to enjoy this, aren’t you?”
The question catches me off guard, a flicker of something wicked curling through me. I don’t let myself look away. I hold his gaze, let him see the challenge there. My breath is shallow, but my voice is steady.
“What if I am?”
He’s so close now that I can see the faintest crease at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile but the promise of one. His eyes drop, lingering on my mouth, then return to mine. The tension is palpable, almost physical, winding tighter with every second.
For a moment, I think he might do something reckless like close the last inch between us, let his composure break. Myheart pounds. The world narrows to this single point, sharp and bright.
Just as quickly as the moment flares, he steps back, his expression shuttering. Whatever he’s thinking, I can’t read it. He straightens, voice formal again. “You’re dismissed, Talia. Good night.”
I nod, forcing my features into a mask of calm, and slip out the door. My hands tremble as I walk the empty corridor, but inside I’m more alive than I’ve been in months. I can still feel the heat of his body, the weight of his gaze, the tension that vibrated between us.
Shaken, but satisfied, I let the door click softly shut behind me.
The game has officially begun.
I walk the halls with my head high, every nerve awake and singing. The marble floors seem to echo with the rapid pace of my heart. I glance over my shoulder, half expecting Adrian to follow, but the study door remains firmly closed.
I force myself to slow down, steadying my breaths, smoothing the flyaways from my hair. My hands are still trembling, but it’s not fear anymore. it’s adrenaline, satisfaction. He tried to unnerve me and failed. Or maybe he succeeded, just not in the way he intended.
As I reach the guest wing, I catch my reflection in a gilt-framed mirror: flushed cheeks, wide eyes, lips parted. I look different. Braver, maybe. Changed by the heat of his attention.
Behind closed doors, I sit on the edge of my bed, replaying the moment. Things have been… odd, since I moved to Adrian’s estate.
I think of his voice, the way he caged me in, the look that lingered on my mouth. I want more. Not just answers aboutEli or the empire I’m hunting, but this dangerous tension, this battle of wills.
I smile to myself, shaky but determined. If Adrian thinks he can scare me into retreat, he’s wrong.
This is only the beginning.
Chapter Eight - Adrian
I tell myself it’s surveillance. That’s what I call it, anyway, as I linger outside conference rooms, watch the curve of her spine as she leans over a stack of files, track the way she glances sideways before stepping into a new corridor. Every move Talia makes is recorded, measured, cataloged.
That’s the excuse I feed to myself, to my second-in-command, to the invisible audience of my own conscience.
In reality, it’s something else. Something that slips through the cracks of my routine and pools in the quiet moments.
I watch her more than I should—more than I intend to. Through tinted glass as she crosses the courtyard, clutching folders to her chest, wind tugging at her curls.
From the head of a boardroom table, I see her slip in at the back, find a chair where she can observe but not be observed. I watch the way her expression shifts—not mask to mask, like most in this house, but in small, honest flickers. Curiosity wrapped in caution. Determination edged with the kind of softness men like me have no business wanting.
She isn’t polished. Not in the way my world prefers—all angles and calculation, all luxury and ease. She doesn’t bother with status markers or empty flattery. There’s a rawness in her, a quiet beauty that sneaks up on you, unexpected and sharp.
I should know better by now. I’ve spent my life building walls against this exact kind of thing.
My eyes find her even when she’s not doing anything suspicious. Especially then. When she reads, head tilted, mouth half open in concentration. When she walks the garden path at dusk, eyes tracing the stonework as if memorizing a map.
When she laughs with one of the younger staff, her guard dropping for a blink before she snaps it back into place.
It should be easy to keep her at a distance. That’s how I survive.
Lately, I find myself inventing reasons to keep her near. Small tasks that could have gone to anyone: update this report, transcribe these notes, sit in on a meeting she has no reason to attend. I redirect things her way, telling myself it’s for efficiency, for security.
The truth is, I want to watch how she handles proximity. I want to see if her composure cracks. I want to know if she’s as unaffected as she pretends.
My men have started to notice. Miroslav makes a pointed remark as we pass in the hall, his tone too casual to be accidental. “Careful, sir. Even wolves can get distracted by shiny things.”
