Page 20 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I drag the files into a hidden folder, fingers tense, heart racing. I am careful—so careful. But I still search for Eli’s name. Nothing. No mention of him. No trace of what happened that night. The emptiness makes the rest of the evidence taste bitter, as if every victory is just a new reminder of my failure.
The office door opens without warning. My fingers freeze. I snap the screen to a blank spreadsheet, swallowing down a rush of adrenaline.
Adrian steps in, his silhouette framed by the city lights behind him. He says nothing at first, only the faint click of the door announcing him. My back goes straight. I keep my eyes on the monitor, trying to look busy but not suspicious.
He comes to stand behind my chair. Close. Silent. I can feel his presence like the press of a storm against my skin. The space between us tightens. He does not speak.
For a long moment, I wonder if he is reading over my shoulder, if he has noticed the tension in my hands, the slight tremble in my breath.
Then he moves away, crossing the room in three easy strides. He stops near the window, pretending to check the view. The office is mostly dark, city lights painting sharp patterns across the walls and floor. I sense him watching me, even when his back is turned. The air feels charged, expectant.
I decide to test him. Not recklessly, but just enough to see what lies beneath the surface. I rise, gathering a few files to take to the cabinet near the window. Instead of giving him space, I walk directly past. Our arms brush for the briefest second. Electricity crackles in the silence. I let myself pause by the cabinet, feigning focus on the folders.
“Was there something you needed?” I ask. I keep my tone casual, as if this is nothing, as if my heart is not thudding in my throat.
He turns, steps closing the distance in an instant. Suddenly, his hand is at my waist, not gentle, not hesitant. He presses me back against the cabinet, the wood cool and unyielding at my spine.
My breath stutters. I expect words, a threat or a reprimand, but Adrian just stares at me. His face is shadowed, eyes dark and wild. I hold my ground, refusing to flinch.
The silence is thick, heavy with something that is not quite anger, not quite hunger. I feel the moment teetering, as if either of us could end it or deepen it with a word. He does neither. Instead, he closes the gap.
His mouth claims mine—hard, punishing, all control and no permission. The kiss is nothing like I expected. It is not a question or an invitation. It is an answer. Possessive. Demanding. His hand tightens at my waist.
I should be afraid. I am not. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. My lips part, answering his urgency with my own. My fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring myself against the solid heat of him. The world narrows to the space between us, to the shock of his mouth, the press of his body pinning me in place.
He kisses me as if it’s punishment. As if he is furious at himself for wanting this. I feel it in the way his teeth graze my bottom lip, in the way his breath hitches against my cheek. There is nothing gentle in it, but I do not want gentle. I want the truth that lives in this violence, in this surrender.
I press closer, matching him, not yielding. My heart pounds so loudly I am sure he can hear it. His hand slides up, fingers splaying across my ribs, hot even through my shirt. The desk behind me rattles with the force of his body.
For a second, I wonder if he will pull away. If he will come to his senses, retreat behind that impenetrable calm he wears like armor.
His mouth is still on mine, relentless, unyielding, as if he is afraid of what will happen when he stops.
When he finally breaks the kiss, his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard. The moment hangs, trembling, between anger and desire.
I meet his eyes, letting him see everything: my need, my defiance, my challenge. I will not be afraid of this man, not of his power, not of his darkness. If he means to punish me, he will have to take me as I am. Unbroken.
Neither of us speaks. There is nothing to say. In this darkness, in this secret room above the city, something between us has changed forever.
He kisses me again, sudden and unrestrained, before I can move or think or speak. His hand finds my jaw, tipping my face up to his.
The second kiss is different from the first: less angry, more searching, as if he is looking for an answer in the shape of my mouth. I meet him willingly, heart racing, my fingers digging into his shoulders to keep from falling.
Time folds in on itself. There is only the heat of his breath, the press of his body, the dizzy certainty that if he is punishment, I am willing to be claimed.
He pulls away, breath ragged, but he does not apologize. He stares down at me for a long, electric moment, eyes burning with something I can’t name: anger, hunger, confusion, maybe all three. I feel the heat of him, the way his hand lingers for a second too long at my waist, as if he’s warring with himself.
Afterwards, the silence hums with everything we cannot say. My hands are still tangled in his shirt, his breath rough against my cheek. For a moment, I let myself exist in the warmth, suspended between fear and hunger. I sense the words on his lips—some warning or apology—but he does not speak them. Instead, his thumb brushes once along my jaw, lingering in a gesture that feels strangely gentle after the roughness of his kiss.
Then, just like that, he turns away. His features settle back into that familiar, icy mask, every line composed. He walks to the door and leaves without a word, as if nothing happened, as if the world hasn’t tilted off its axis.
Except, I know it did. The press of his mouth is still hot on mine. My lips tingle from the force of it. I’m breathless, chest rising and falling too fast, my heartbeat an earthquake in my ribs. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the door he vanished through, unable to believe what just happened.
Unable to believe how much I wanted it.
When I finally move, it’s with shaking hands. I press my fingers to my mouth, feeling the faint swelling there, a bruise that isn’t quite visible but pulses with every beat of my heart.
I replay his mouth, the punishing grip of his hand, the way he tasted of heat and frustration and something sweeter. I want to be angry. I want to be afraid. Instead, I feel lightheaded. Hungry. Unmoored.
