Page 58 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
We don’t say goodbye, not really. That word feels too final, too heavy, after all we’ve survived. We say I love you.We say stay safe, and don’t forget who you are. We say don’t disappear again. We say, without saying it, that the world can still be mended. Even when it hurts.
Adrian stands at the far edge of the platform, just a shadow in the last of the light, but his presence anchors me. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t watch, not really. He just waits, giving us space to unravel and bind ourselves again.
When Eli finally steps away, his silhouette swallowed by the darkness at the end of the tracks, I watch him go. The ache in my chest is sharp, but clean, like setting a bone that never healed right. My old life fades with his retreating figure, all the unfinished stories and unanswered questions trailing behind him.
I wipe my face, steadying my breath, and turn back toward the car. Adrian waits for me, hands tucked in his pockets, gaze soft with something that almost looks like relief. In his eyes, I see the man who broke the rules for me, the man who chose me even when it cost him everything.
I close the distance between us, not running, not afraid. I don’t need to say thank you. He already knows. Instead, I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his, grounding myself in the heat of his palm. My new life stands here, quiet, waiting.
We don’t speak as we walk back to the car. The silence is full, not empty. The night air tastes like possibility. I slide into the passenger seat, heart lighter than it’s been in years.
As we drive away, I watch the depot disappear in the rearview, the memory of Eli’s embrace warm in my bones. I know the road ahead isn’t simple. I know forgiveness will take time. But for the first time, I believe in the future again.
Adrian glances at me as the city lights grow closer, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. I squeeze his hand back, a small promise that I’m not running.
My brother is free. I am too.
My new life… whatever it becomes, I’m ready to claim it.
The drive back to the estate is quiet, but the silence between us is different now—full instead of fraught, humming with something neither of us dares name.
The headlights cut through the darkness, guiding us home. Adrian’s hand rests on my knee, thumb tracing small circles, grounding me in this new reality. My brother is safe. My future is suddenly my own to choose.
Back at the mansion, the world feels changed. The tension that always crackled between us is gone, replaced by something heavier and more hopeful. I wander the halls for a while, replaying the night on a loop: Eli’s arms around me, his voice in my ear, the way Adrian waited just far enough away to let me have what I needed most.
Eventually, I find Adrian in his study, the door open, golden lamplight pooling across the floor. He sits half in shadow, jacket slung over the chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, jaw resting on one hand as he reads something I know he isn’t seeing.
For a moment, I just watch him. I see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the weight he carries. My chest tightens.
I step inside, closing the door behind me. He looks up, and I see relief flicker in his eyes before he masks it.
“Thank you,” I say softly. The words don’t feel like enough. Nothing would be.
He doesn’t speak. He just stands, crossing the room in two long strides, and pulls me in, his arms wrapping around my waist, holding me so tight I can barely breathe. I feel him inhaleat the crown of my head, like he’s been waiting to breathe again. My lips find his without hesitation.
It isn’t gentle. It’s a crash, a collision of mouths and breath and the desperate need to prove we’re both still here, still alive, still wanting.
I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. He groans into my mouth, hands sliding down my back to grip my hips. I arch against him, needing to feel him everywhere, to let this new version of us carve its place beneath my skin.
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, setting me down on the edge of his desk. Papers scatter, pens roll to the floor, but neither of us cares.
His hands are everywhere: cradling my face, exploring my thighs, peeling my shirt over my head. His touch is reverent and possessive all at once. When his mouth finds my neck, I gasp, tilting my head to give him more.
He unbuttons his shirt, tossing it aside, and steps between my legs. I hook my ankles behind him, pulling him closer.
Our kisses grow slower, deeper, his tongue stroking mine, savoring, learning, claiming. He cups my breast, thumb brushing over the tight peak, and I shiver, pressing into his palm.
“I stuck by you,” he murmurs. “You know I always will, don’t you?”
I nod, unable to speak. My hands roam over the hard planes of his chest, the old scars that tell the story of a life lived on the edge. I want to map every inch of him, to leave my own marks, to show him that this time it isn’t just lust. It’s something deeper, something that cracks me open and remakes me.
He slides my jeans down, lips trailing over my thighs, kneeling before me as if in worship. When his mouth finds me—hot, wet, thorough—I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair, anchoring myself to the moment.
He licks and sucks until I’m trembling, begging, thighs clamped around his shoulders. He takes his time, drawing it out, letting me come apart for him, letting me remember what it feels like to be wanted, to be safe.
When I finally come, it’s with a sob, the pleasure sharp and bright, tears sliding down my cheeks. He rises, kissing me fiercely, swallowing my cries, then frees himself from his trousers. He’s hard, thick, the head wet and flushed. He presses against me, eyes locked on mine, waiting for permission.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please. I need you.”
