Page 48 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I lean back against the wall, letting the weight of her anger settle over me. I think of the life she’s built around grief, the fire in her voice, the way she looks at me like she wants to tear me apart and never let me go.
She is the only person in this world who could truly destroy me. I never should have let her in. I never should have wanted her, needed her, loved her.
But I did.
I will not chase her. Not tonight. I will give her space to rage, to mourn, to decide how much more of herself she’s willing to risk for answers I cannot give. I trust her to come back to me, or to end this the way it was always meant to end: bloody, brutal, honest.
Alone in the silence, I replay every moment—her hands on me, her laughter, the first time she looked at me with something that wasn’t fear or calculation. I want to believe thereis still a way forward. I want to believe that what we have is enough.
The truth is, I don’t know. I have made her my enemy, and I cannot blame her for fighting back.
I push away from the wall and disappear into the dark, letting the house close in around me. There is no sleep tonight. Only the certainty that the game is far from over, and that I have never wanted anyone the way I want the woman who now has every reason to destroy me.
I wait for her in the bedroom, pacing slow circles in the dark, listening for the sound of her footsteps in the hallway. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by the ticking of the old clock on the mantel and the distant moan of wind against the glass. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space where she should be, where she always is, tangled in the sheets, close enough to touch.
Hours drag past. I don’t sleep. I replay her words, her accusation, the way she pulled free of my grip and left me standing in the hall with nothing but regret and anger clenching my fists. Each time the floor creaks, I hope it’s her coming back, but it never is.
By three in the morning, the weight of her absence is suffocating. I can’t stand it any longer. In a moment that feels foreign—vulnerable, weak—I reach for the phone and call Miroslav. He answers after the first ring, his voice rough with exhaustion and surprise.
“Sir?”
I hesitate, then speak, my tone low, stripped bare of command. “She hasn’t come back. She’s never stayed away this long. What would you do?”
There’s a pause on the line. I imagine him sitting up, blinking away sleep, realizing how unusual this is. Adrian Sharov doesn’t ask for advice. Adrian Sharov doesn’t confess worry, doesn’t admit to needing anyone, least of all his wife.
Miroslav answers quietly, “Give her time. Let her come to you. She’s angry, but she’s not gone.”
His words settle into the darkness.
I rub a hand over my face, feeling every year of this life in my bones. Miroslav’s words echo in my ear. Let her come to you. I want to believe it. I want to believe I haven’t lost her for good.
“Don’t go after her tonight. She needs to decide what to do with the truth. If you try to force it now—”
“I know,” I cut in, my voice harsh, brittle. “What if she doesn’t come back?”
“She will,” he replies. “You made her your enemy, but you also made her your equal. She won’t walk away without a fight. Give her that respect, at least.”
I exhale slowly, staring at the door, willing it to open. “You think I made a mistake.”
Miroslav is silent for a long moment. “I think you chose her, knowing what it would cost. You can’t undo that, Adrian. Just… don’t try to control everything now. Let her come back because she wants to, not because you order it.”
I close my eyes, the words cutting deeper than I expect. “If she walks away, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Then don’t let her,” he says, gentler now. “But don’t make it worse. Not tonight.”
The line goes quiet. I sit in the dark, listening to the silence, and wonder if I’m capable of letting her choose me at all.
Chapter Twenty-One - Talia
The truth is a fracture running straight through my chest. Eli is alive. Adrian helped bury him. That knowledge sits in my stomach like a rock—too heavy to swallow, too jagged to spit out. I spend the night locked in a guest room, pacing furiously, wringing my hands, replaying every memory: Adrian’s eyes, his mouth, the way he touched me like I was both a secret and a promise. The way he looked at me like I was more than a game. Like I was his. Like he could be mine.
Now, in the hard light of betrayal, all of it feels like a trap I willingly walked into. My own fault. I remember every choice I made, every lie I told myself about being in control, about getting justice for my brother.
Justice is tangled up with everything I want and everything I hate, and I can’t find a way out.
Dawn creeps in, washing the stone floors in cold gray light. I haven’t slept. My mind is raw, my skin prickling with leftover anger and something that feels too much like grief. I wait until I hear his footsteps downstairs, the muted rumble of his voice as he gives orders to his men, the house awakening to another day where nothing is as it should be.
I leave the guest room and make my way to the living room, barefoot, still in yesterday’s clothes. He’s there, waiting. Always waiting. He sits on the far side of the room, back straight, hands folded, as if he’s ready for anything I might do. I don’t speak. I don’t even look at him for more than a second. Instead, I cross to the nearest sideboard, pick up the first thing I find—a heavy crystal glass—and hurl it against the far wall.
