Page 34 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I stare into the glass, seeing her reflection in the dark surface—her mouth open, her breath stuttering, her body arching for me and me alone. I am ruined by the memory, evenas I know I cannot have her yet. Not fully. Not until she gives herself freely.
Still, restraint is a curse. Every part of me aches for her. Every part of me wants to take, to claim, to possess. I remind myself that I have the power, that she has chosen to stay, that she is here because I demanded it.
I know the truth. She is here because the war between us is not yet finished. She is here because she has secrets. Because she means to win.
I will not let her win. Not now. Not ever.
I finish my drink, the burn of vodka a weak substitute for the fire in my veins. I return to the door, half tempted to go back to her room and finish what I started. To see her shatter and beg, to make her mine in every way that matters.
I wait. I let the hunger build. I let her feel the echo of my hands, the absence of my mouth, the promise I have made with every touch and every word.
Tomorrow, I will see her again. Tomorrow, I will demand answers. Tomorrow, I will have her—for real this time.
Chapter Fifteen - Talia
I don’t sleep.
I sit curled on the window seat, knees drawn to my chest, shivering, though the room isn’t cold. The throw blanket from the foot of the bed is wrapped around my shoulders, but it barely touches the chill inside me.
Moonlight pours through the glass in silver stripes, carving up the stone floors and the silken covers of a bed I haven’t touched.
Everything feels too sharp. The distant prowl of footsteps in the hall, the hush of wind against the glass, my own breath hitching in my throat.
My skin still hums from his touch. Every nerve is raw. I can’t stop replaying the last hour—his hands on my body, the wall at my back, the way his mouth hovered just out of reach. The way I gasped his name. The way he didn’t let me finish, didn’t let me forget myself for even a heartbeat.
The pleasure and shame are tangled so tightly in me I can’t pull them apart.
I hate him for it. I hate the coldness in his eyes, the way he says mine like it’s a law of nature. I hate that I wanted it, wanted him, wanted more even as my mind screamed at me to run. I hate that I am still sitting here, trembling and alive, desperate for something I don’t even have the words to name.
The throw blanket slips from my shoulders and I let it. I lean my forehead against the cool glass, breathing out slow, watching my reflection shudder in the dark. My lips are swollen, my heart racing.
I try to focus on the reasons I came here. Eli. The evidence. The promise I made not to lose myself in this place, in this man.
My mind is chaos. The week feels like it’s spiraled out of my hands. The strange proposal at the gala—if it can really be called a proposal. The gun in the car, icy and real along my jaw, and his voice telling me I’m his.
The way he looked at me tonight, like he was seeing something new, something he wanted to break and protect all at once. The way my body betrayed me, arching into his hand, trembling for his approval, for release.
I want to escape. The urge gnaws at me, wild and desperate. I picture myself running down the endless corridors, throwing open door after door, searching for an exit that doesn’t exist.
I know it’s pointless. He owns the walls around me. He owns the locks and the guards and the silence. He owns the air, my heartbeat, every secret I thought I could keep.
The worst part, the part that keeps me from breathing, from screaming, from tearing this room apart with my bare hands, isn’t the danger. It’s the part of me that doesn’t want to leave. It’s the part that aches to see him again, to go to his room and demand answers. The part that wants to scream at him, to cry, to hit him until he admits what he’s doing to me. The part that wants to beg him to finish what he started. To let me fall apart, to make me whole.
I bury my face in my hands, shaking. My thighs press together, desperate for relief that’s half pleasure, half pain. I want to hate him.
I want to hate myself more. For how quickly my body responded. For how badly I want to feel his hands again, hismouth on my skin, his voice telling me I’m his. The shame is acid, hot, and relentless. The want is worse.
I close my eyes, but the memories come anyway. The gun, his words, his hands. The way he made me feel—helpless and powerful at the same time, as if surrendering to him could set me free.
I stand, restless, crossing the room in slow circles. I open the wardrobe. I close it. I smooth the sheets of the bed and then rip them loose, too agitated to be still. I press my forehead to the door, listening for footsteps, half hoping he’ll come back, half hoping he’ll stay away.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I go back to the window and sink down again, watching the dark horizon. Somewhere out there is the city, and the life I left behind. I try to remember what freedom felt like.
The late-night coffee runs with Jessa, the smell of Eli’s old leather jacket, the hum of Brooklyn traffic below my apartment. It feels like another lifetime.
Tears sting my eyes, sudden and unbidden. I press my knuckles to my mouth, refusing to let myself cry. This is what he wants, I think. To see me undone. To see me broken open and hungry, so desperate for him that I’ll give up the mission, the truth, everything I am.
I want to believe I’m still in control. That I can turn this heat, this need, into a weapon. That I can let him get close and still protect myself. I’m losing ground. Losing myself.
