Page 59 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
He enters me slowly, filling me inch by inch, his forehead pressed to mine. The stretch is delicious, the ache perfect. We move together, his hands cradling my hips, my arms wrapped around his neck. He kisses me like he’s memorizing me, like every second could be our last. There’s no anger now, no pain.
We find a rhythm, rocking together, the edge building slow and sweet. He whispers my name, again and again, like a prayer. I run my nails down his back, gasp when he rolls his hips just right, when he grinds against my clit, when he buries his face in my hair and breathes me in.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “God, Talia, I love you.”
The words undo me. I shatter around him, pleasure crashing through me, leaving me limp and shaking. He follows, hips stuttering, spilling inside me with a groan that sounds like surrender and salvation at once.
After, he gathers me close, arms tight around my waist, lips pressed to my temple. I rest my head on his shoulder, my fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest. The world outside fades. For the first time, I believe we might be more than the sum of our mistakes.
We stay there, tangled and breathless, the desk digging into my back, the taste of his mouth still on my lips. When he finally lifts me off the desk, he carries me to the sofa, tucks me under his arm, and lets the silence settle again.
I’m full of hope, of forgiveness, of the promise that comes after survival.
We linger on the sofa, bodies still pressed close, his hand tracing lazy shapes over my bare hip. The afterglow hums between us, quiet and real, washing away the sharp edges of everything that came before.
I rest my head on Adrian’s chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. His breath ruffles my hair, his other arm wrapped tight around my shoulders, holding me like he’s afraid to let go.
For once, there’s nothing left to say. I don’t need to ask if he means it, or if he’ll keep choosing me. I feel it in every gentle stroke of his fingers, every whispered kiss at my temple.
My fears soften, losing their grip, replaced by something warmer, heavier—peace.
I let myself believe this could last, that the world outside the study door can wait a little longer. That tonight, for once, survival is enough. That love is enough.
Adrian’s hand stills, and I look up. He smiles, soft and weary, and I know we’re finally home.
Epilogue - Talia
One Year Later
These days, the mornings begin in quiet warmth. I rise early, sunlight spilling across the hardwood as I slip from beneath the heavy duvet.
Adrian’s arm falls away with a sleepy sigh, his fingers grazing my hip before settling on his side of the bed. I wrap myself in a robe—pale blue and soft, a gift from him—and pad barefoot through the apartment to the kitchen, where the kettle whistles, impatient and bright.
I brew my tea and curl up on the velvet couch by the tall windows.
The city outside is already moving, taxis blurring down the avenue, the buzz of ambition echoing even through double glass.
Our home is its own little world: safe, slow, and just a bit sacred. My laptop hums to life beside me, the blue-white glow of the screen opening onto a story I care about in a way I haven’t felt for years.
The headline draft is simple, clear: “In Plain Sight: The Survivors of Systemic Abuse in Institutional Care.”
It’s not about the Bratva, not about revenge or survival. I write now for something bigger, something clean; a cause I’ve long cared about but never had the freedom to pursue. My journalism serves the truth, not old anger. My voice isn’t hidden behind aliases or paranoia anymore. It’s mine.
Adrian’s voice carries from the next room, low and certain, Russian words clipped and commanding as he closes out an early call. His business never quite sleeps, but it rarely touches me now. He passes by on his way to the coffeepot, stillbarefoot, hair a little wild, and lets his hand rest on my thigh. It lingers there—warm, grounding—a silent reminder I’m not doing this alone.
Sometimes, that’s all I need. Sometimes, that’s everything.
I catch his eye and he smiles, something soft and private passing between us. His presence is steady now, a kind of promise made in the hush before the day unspools. There are moments of intensity.
No marriage between people like us is ever simple, but the ache for war, for secrets, has faded. We learned to live with the history that made us. We learned, slowly, to trust in something new.
Outside, the city moves fast, churning with possibility and threat, but our world is slower, grounded in ritual and quiet joys. Adrian’s empire remains: reshaped, careful, less cruel. He keeps his promises. He still breaks rules, but only for me.
Eli is alive and well in the south of France, a detail that still makes my heart swell with disbelief and gratitude every time I remember. He lives under a new name, blending into a quiet life surrounded by books, sunflowers, and students who don’t know a thing about who he once was. He teaches creative writing at a small university, rides his old bike to the market each morning, and never locks it up. He sends me handwritten postcards every other week, his looping script full of little stories about rainstorms, stubborn students, the scent of lavender at dusk. He never writes about the past, only the present and the future.
Most in the Bratva believe he died in a territorial war, a myth Adrian constructed and buried so deep no one even thinks to question it. It was a quiet operation, surgical and absolute. Names erased, records rewritten, memories bought or buried.
Eli’s freedom was the greatest gift Adrian could give me, and it changed everything between us. It was proof that love, even born of violence and ruin, could be transformed.
