Page 39 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I squeeze her hand, silent and sure, then turn to the crowd. “Stay where you are,” I command, my voice carrying through the shaken room. “No one leaves until we’ve cleared the grounds. This was meant for me. For us. I will not be cowed.”
A ripple of assent moves through the guests. Old habits, old loyalties. I catch Miroslav’s eye, give a nod. He disappears, issuing orders, locking down every exit.
Talia stands at my side, her shoulders squared, her chin high. She is afraid—I can see it in the tremor of her fingers, but she will not let them see her break.
I lean close, my words just for her. “This is our world now. There is no turning back.”
She nods, voice barely a whisper. “I know.”
For a moment, the room feels united, our fear hardening into resolve. I know that this is only the first shot. The first warning. The family has seen my choice. Now they will test it.
I tighten my hold on Talia, refusing to let her go. I will not show weakness. Not now, not ever.
As the dust settles and the lights flicker back to life, I meet the eyes of every man in the room. I dare them to challenge me. To take what I have claimed.
Beside me, Talia stands tall, unbroken.
The city is quiet when we return to the mansion, as if the world itself is holding its breath. The usual parade of headlights through the gates is doubled tonight, my guards thickening the perimeter, radios crackling with terse updates.
I watch them through the car window, every dark silhouette and shifting beam of light a reminder that even in my own house, safety is only a matter of vigilance and force.
Talia sits beside me, hands clenched in her lap, the new ring glinting with every tremor of her fingers. She doesn’t speak.Her jaw is set, eyes forward, shoulders rigid. The aftermath of the bomb hangs between us, heavy as smoke.
I want to reach for her, to offer comfort or assurance or something softer than the world has allowed us. I hold back.
She is not the sort of woman who accepts comfort easily. And tonight, nothing I say can erase what’s already happened.
Inside, the house is alive with movement. Guards posted at every door, security staff moving with grim urgency. I order double shifts, more men on the east wall, tighter patrols on the garden path. I want eyes everywhere. Miroslav receives my instructions with a silent nod, dispatching teams before the words have finished leaving my mouth.
“We don’t know who it was,” he says quietly. “Yelena, perhaps. Or someone higher up.”
I nod, the tension in my jaw unrelenting. “Keep watch. No one leaves, no one comes in without my word.”
He vanishes into the shadows, his presence as steady and silent as the stone around us.
I lead Talia upstairs, through the winding corridors and up to our private wing. She says nothing. I let her move at her own pace, neither rushing nor slowing. When we reach our rooms, I close the door behind us and lock it, the final barrier between her and the world.
She drifts to the edge of the bed, sitting down hard, shoulders bowed. I watch her take off her shoes, one at a time, fingers clumsy with fatigue and nerves. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t speak. I can see the questions swirling behind her eyes.Who did this? Why? Was it worth it?
I join her on the mattress, leaving space between us, careful not to crowd her. The moonlight slants across the sheets, glinting off the gold ring that still circles her finger. She holdsher hand up, watching the light shift across it, as if trying to make sense of its weight.
I want to tell her it’s going to be all right. That I can protect her. That I have always won the wars I started, and this will be no different.
Doubt creeps in at the edges of my resolve. I wonder if by marrying her, by binding her to my name and my house, I have painted a target on her back that will never fade. She is mine now, claimed and seen, and there are men in this city who will see that as weakness.
Others who will see it as opportunity.
I watch her for a long time, saying nothing. Her breathing slows, steadies. At some point she stretches out on the bed, curling on her side, still in her dress, ring gleaming on the pillow beside her cheek. She is so beautiful it hurts—so fierce, so breakable, so wholly, unwillingly mine.
I sit beside her, not touching, just watching. The silence deepens. Outside, the wind rattles the shutters. Somewhere below, a guard’s boots echo on the stone. The house has never felt so full of threat.
As Talia drifts toward sleep, her face softens, the tension sliding away until she looks young and fragile and new. I reach out, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, letting my fingers linger for a moment against her warm skin. I memorize the curve of her cheek, the shape of her mouth, the steady pulse in her throat.
I wonder what she dreams about tonight. Freedom, perhaps. Or revenge. Or me.
She murmurs something in her sleep, shifting closer. The ring glints again, bright and unyielding. I cannot tell if it is a shackle or a shield.
I lie down beside her, propped on one elbow, unable to let myself fully rest. The questions crowd my mind. Who set the bomb? What message was sent? What price will I have to pay to keep her safe?
