Page 18 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I ignore him, as is my habit. I don’t allow distractions. Never have. Discipline is my currency, my shield.
There is something strange about Talia’s restraint. She doesn’t flirt—never tries to charm or ingratiate herself. She doesn’t chase my attention, doesn’t thank me for the favors that keep landing in her lap. If anything, she seems slightly annoyed by them, as if the extra work is an inconvenience rather than an advantage.
That irritation unsettles me more than I want to admit.
The others try to read the dynamic. Yelena, for her part, has turned from open hostility to something quieter, more watchful. She’s begun to hover, appearing just as Talia is called in, always with a hand on my arm, a word for the benefit of onlookers. It’s transparent, but effective.
She wants to see if Talia will rise to the bait, if she’ll fight for attention, compete for power.
Talia never does. She waits, silent and steady, until she’s spoken to. She doesn’t bristle or shrink, doesn’t drop her gaze. It’s as if she’s mastered the art of standing her ground without seeming to push. She speaks only when necessary, but when she does, it’s with the kind of clarity that makes people listen. I find myself waiting for her input, seeking it out, weighing her words against my own.
In the rare moments we’re alone—late in the office, an empty hallway, a chance encounter in the archives—the energy between us tightens. It’s not flirtation. Not exactly. There’s a tension, though. Something unspoken. I sense her watching me too, as if she’s cataloging my reactions, looking for patterns, weaknesses, truths.
Sometimes I test her. I’ll leave a file unguarded, mention a name I know will catch her ear, watch how she handles the bait. She’s careful, but not infallible. Every so often, her eyes linger too long, her questions edge too close. It excites me and irritates me in equal measure.
There are nights when I catch myself thinking about her after hours wondering if she’s sleeping, or reading, or lying awake and replaying our conversations as I do. I hate that loss of control, that sliver of vulnerability. I can’t bring myself to stop.
I convince myself this is still the work. That her history is too clean, her timing too convenient, her lies too smooth. I tell myself I’m doing my duty, rooting out a threat, making sure my house is secure.
Even I know that’s only half true.
Sometimes I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. Does she know I’m watching? Does she feel the edge beneathevery word, every silence? Does she sense how close I am to losing the distance I’ve always relied on?
Miroslav’s warning circles my thoughts, quiet but insistent.
Distraction. Weakness.
When I watch Talia move through my world, quietly refusing to bend or break, I know it’s already too late.
Some threats you recognize too late. Some, you invite in.
It’s late. The city outside my car is smeared with neon and rain, every red light stretching out behind the windshield like a wound. I drive without purpose. Just loops around the estate’s perimeter, through the narrow streets downtown, out past the river where the lights go thin and the world feels quiet.
My mind runs restless, never settling. Always circling back to her.
I think about Talia more than I intend to. The way she bites her lip when she’s trying to find the right word. The curl of her hair, gone wild by evening no matter how she tames it in the morning. The steady, deliberate way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. Even more so when she knows I am.
I take a turn without thinking, and suddenly I’m back home. I must have been driving on autopilot. The building is mostly dark, only a few pools of light left on the upper floors.
I know she’s still here. She works late more often now. Is it real dedication, or does she have her own reasons for lingering after hours? I tell myself it doesn’t matter, but of course it does. I find myself needing to know.
Inside, the air is different: quiet, humming with the low-frequency tension of unfinished work. I move through the corridors without hurry, without sound. Years of habit have made me a shadow in my own house.
I find her in one of the small side offices, a lone lamp burning on the desk. She sits with her head down, hair loose around her shoulders, shoulders hunched ever so slightly as she types. Her lips are pursed in concentration, brows drawn in a faint frown. She’s so focused she doesn’t hear me enter. Something in my chest twists.
For a moment, I just watch her. I tell myself it’s analysis—assessing risk, measuring intent—but it’s something else entirely. I want to see her unguarded, want to know what occupies her mind when she believes she’s alone.
I step into the room and clear my throat, keeping my voice level. “You’re still here.”
It’s a simple observation, but it lands heavier than I mean it to. The air tightens, aware of itself. She looks up, her expression shifting in the lamplight. There’s a flicker of hesitation, a flash of alertness—like a wild animal pausing, testing the wind for danger. Beneath it is something else, something that echoes the heat boiling under my own skin.
She’s not afraid. Not of me. That’s what makes her dangerous.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I see her weighing the situation, choosing her next words with care. I should leave. I should end this before it goes any further, before I risk losing what I’ve spent years building.
I don’t move. I don’t leave. Instead, I let the moment stretch, testing its edges.
She breaks the silence first, voice quiet but steady. “I wanted to finish this report tonight. I thought it might help if you had it first thing tomorrow.”
