Page 9 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
She doesn’t answer. Her silence says as much as words could. I watch her, searching for the fracture in her armor or the nervous twitch, the slip of the mask. Nothing.
We sit in the hush, the fire crackling, her coat still buttoned up tight, her eyes holding mine without fear. There’s something familiar in her: the set of her mouth, the stubborn line of her shoulders. It bothers me, that familiarity. I feel it like a forgotten name on the tip of my tongue.
I stand, circle the room once, stop in front of her. Her presence is steady, an anchor in the shifting dark. I want to ask a hundred questions: Why here? Why now? Who taught you to hide in plain sight?
Instead I say, “You’ll stay here tonight. Miroslav will show you to a guest room. If you try to leave—” I leave the threat unfinished. She nods once.
I let her go, but I watch her all the way to the door. Her back is straight, steps even. She glances over her shoulder only once. For a moment, her eyes catch the firelight, and I see something raw beneath all that caution—grief, perhaps, or hunger. Or revenge.
She disappears into the hall, Miroslav following, a silent sentinel in his black suit who closes the door behind them. I sit alone with the silence, the report, and the old, cold certainty that I am missing something important.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in unfinished business. I believe, absolutely, that no one walks into my house by accident.
I watch the flames in the hearth, the shadows they cast against the high ceiling, the way they flicker and dance over the reports on my desk.
My mind keeps drifting back to her. Not the lie she spun, not the caution in her eyes, but something subtler: the steadiness with which she met my questions, the way she refused to let fear rule her posture.
I am used to watching people fall apart in this room. Most tremble, break, beg, or bluster. They forget themselves in the presence of power—my power. Talia Benett did not forget herself. She was careful, but not fragile. It is a rare kind of control, and it makes her far more interesting than any spy or rival I’ve interrogated before. I would almost call it refreshing, if I let myself admit to that kind of sentiment.
I pour myself a measure of vodka and let it burn the back of my throat. The room feels too large, the air too still. I am not in the habit of letting strangers into my home, much less keeping them here, but punishment must fit the crime, and I have no intention of making her vanish—not yet.
That would be a waste, and more importantly, it would solve nothing. The most useful information is found not by force, but by patience.
By watching what happens when the prey believes the jaws have closed, only to find the wolf waiting in the garden.
When I step into the corridor, Miroslav stands waiting outside, hands folded in front of him, eyes as hard as the marble underfoot.
“She’s not like the others,” I say quietly, as if the old walls might overhear. “Assign her to my private team, here on the grounds. Have her moved in by the end of the week; she doesn’tleave this estate unless I allow it, and don’t allow her near the main offices in town. Frame it as a favor, if you have to.”
Miroslav’s brow lifts, just a little. He’s seen me play this game before. “You want her where you can keep an eye on her.”
“Where she knows I am watching,” I say, lips curling into something that is not quite a smile. “Let her settle in. No special treatment, but nothing too harsh. If she’s hiding something, we’ll find it.” I take a sip of vodka, let the warmth seep into my veins. “Not yet.”
He nods, efficient as ever. “It will be done.”
I watch as Talia is led down the long hallway toward the guest wing. The firelight from the sitting room gives way to the soft, shadowy glow of sconces. She glances back just once, catching sight of me where I stand in the doorway. Her gaze lingers, curious and sharp, and for a moment I sense a tension.
It’s ridiculous, I know, but there’s a flicker of enjoyment in the way she resists unraveling. I have always liked puzzles, especially the kind that pretend to be ordinary. She is not what she claims.
She is not ordinary. There’s grit in her, a will that does not bend easily. It makes her beautiful in a way most women are not, especially in this world of painted smiles and careful lies.
I feel the familiar tug of attraction, the dangerous kind, the one that grows not from mere appearance, but from the shape of a mind, the cut of stubbornness.
The estate’s archive is a maze of rooms and corridors below the main floors, a world apart from the grand halls and reception rooms.
The staff is loyal, but not above curiosity. It won’t take long for rumors to start, for stories to grow. I almost want tosee how she’ll handle it—how she’ll carve out her space in this closed, suspicious little ecosystem.
I return to my study, but the quiet is now restless. I pour over the data Miroslav brings me—every message she’s sent, every call she’s made. There is nothing, yet. Just enough to make me suspect I am looking for the wrong kind of evidence.
I can’t help but imagine her moving through the archives, shelves of old ledgers and files casting lines of dust across her boots. She’ll be watched, but not too closely. She’ll feel the pressure, the eyes on her, the sense that she is both captive and honored guest. I know that feeling intimately. It’s the feeling of being hunted and valued, both at once.
I find myself smiling again, that quiet, inward kind that never quite reaches the surface. It has been a long time since a problem has felt like a pleasure.
I pour another drink.
Tomorrow, I will summon her to the archive office and explain her new assignment. I will make it sound like a kindness, a second chance. She will know better, of course, but I suspect she will accept it with that same unflinching calm, that stubbornness that draws my attention back again and again.
As the fire burns low, I realize I am looking forward to our next conversation—not just as a test of wits, but as a kind of game.
