Page 42 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I keep walking because there’s no choice. I’m tired of being left out, shut out, kept in the dark.
When we reach the heavy double doors of the living room, Miroslav pauses. His eyes sweep over me one last time, sizing me up, searching for any cracks in the mask I’ve tried so hard to wear.
He leans in, just enough so I can feel his breath against my ear. “He might be your husband, but I’m not your friend. Don’t ever forget it, Talia. Not for a second.”
I hold his stare, my chin high. “Maybe you’re not the only one who should be careful who they trust.”
He steps aside, mouth twisting into that humorless not-quite-smile of his. “We’ll see.”
He knocks—once, sharp—then pushes open the door, ushering me inside before I can lose my nerve or change my mind.
I step through, pulse thrumming, heart braced for whatever comes next. The doors close behind me, muffling the world to a hush.
It’s only after Miroslav is gone that I realize my hands are shaking.
Adrian stands at the window, back to the room, shoulders tense in the late-afternoon light.
The silence is thick, but I refuse to break it first, not after the gauntlet Miroslav just put me through. I stay by the door, arms crossed, trying to steady my breath and hide the tremor in my hands.
He finally turns. His eyes sweep over me, unreadable, taking in every detail: my posture, my face, the defiance I try to hold on to.
“You called, husband?”
For a moment, I wonder if he called me here to interrogate me, to question my loyalty, to demand answers in a way only he can.
He only nods to the sofa. “Sit,” he says, voice quiet but leaving no room for argument.
I hesitate, then obey, settling on the edge of the seat, back straight, chin high. My heart thuds in my chest, adrenaline still burning from the confrontation with Miroslav.
I feel stripped bare, exposed by every pair of eyes in this house. I brace myself for whatever comes next, refusing to show weakness.
Chapter Eighteen - Adrian
I wait in the living room, the old stone walls closing in around the flicker of lamplight. The storm outside rattles the tall windows, wind scraping branches against the glass, thunder rolling through the bones of the house. The place feels older, colder tonight—a fortress or a tomb, depending on how you look at it.
There’s a glass of vodka on the table next to me, untouched, the liquid catching the light in a dull glint. I don’t want it. My mind is clearer than it’s been in days, stripped down by tension, sharpened by everything I’ve risked. I send Miroslav upstairs to fetch Talia, knowing she won’t appreciate the summons.
I hope she’s angry. I hope she’s ready for a fight. It’s better than silence.
I hear her before I see her. Bare feet padding on the runner, the soft swish of silk, the storm’s howl trailing in her wake. She enters the room with a scowl, still in one of the silk robes she favors when she’s tired or stubborn. Her hair is a wild mess, her mouth set in a thin, unimpressed line. She folds her arms across her chest, refusing to meet my gaze.
“You called, husband?” she mutters, sarcasm brittle on her tongue.
“Sit.”
She huffs, but does as I ask.
I don’t answer, just stand and nod toward the door at the far end of the hall. My way of saying follow me. She lets out a sigh—half exasperation, half surrender—and mumbles something too low to catch.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
She raises a brow. “What is it?”
“Follow me, and you’ll see.”
We descend in silence. The storm above is distant now, muffled by stone and steel. The air grows colder as we walk down the back stairwell, boots echoing on the concrete.
At the lowest landing, I draw a key from my pocket and fit it to the heavy steel door—a vault, the true heart of the estate, filled with the tools of my trade: weapons, records, truths I’ll never let see daylight.
