Page 22 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Jessa groans. “Oh my God. Are you okay? Did he force himself on you? Tali, seriously.”
“No! No, it wasn’t—like that. I mean, it was intense, but I’m fine. I just… I don’t even know if I’m mad or—I don’t know what I am.”
Jessa is quiet for a moment, the kind of thoughtful pause that always means she’s worried. “This is the guy you said you’d burn to the ground if you could. Are you being careful?”
The reminder is like cold water. “Yeah. Of course I am.”
She sighs, softer this time. “Tali, I love you, but this is messy even for you. Do you like him? Like actually, not ‘oh he’s hot because he’s my boss’ but… like him?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know. I mean, I shouldn’t. I don’t want to. Except when I’m around him, it’s like I can’t think straight. He makes me so angry, and then he looks at me and I forget why I was mad. And then I remember everything he’s done, or might have done, and I just—” I break off, shaking my head.
Jessa’s voice goes gentle, which is even worse. “Babe, please be careful.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I’m not stupid, I just… I don’t know.”
Silence stretches between us, only broken by the distant squawk of Brooklyn pigeons through her phone. I want her to tell me what to do, to say it’s simple: just leave, just run, just hate him like you promised.
She doesn’t. Instead, she just breathes with me, both of us caught in the middle of something too big for words.
Finally she says, “You don’t owe him anything. Not even your confusion. Just… don’t let him take more from you than you’re willing to lose.”
My throat feels thick. “Yeah. I won’t.”
Jessa blows out a sigh, trying to rally. “Next time, at least make him buy you a drink first. Or a therapy voucher.”
That almost makes me laugh. “Maybe both.”
We hang up with promises to call soon, and I set the phone down on the desk. I stare at the sunlight, at the files still open on my computer, and I try to steady myself. I tell myself I hate him. I remind myself what he’s capable of.
The memory of his mouth on mine is still there, stubborn and hot and impossible to erase.
I sit with that contradiction—resentment and hunger, fury and something softer I won’t name. The lines between right and wrong, love and hate, have never felt so thin.
Chapter Ten - Adrian
I have not touched her again since that night. Not even a brush of fingers, not a lingering pause beside her chair, not so much as a word with weight behind it. Instead, I watch her. Unforgivingly.
I track her through the estate, through meetings and corridors, through the dull hum of routine, and I know she feels it. I can see it in the way her shoulders tighten when she senses me in the room, the way her jaw sets, how her eyes never linger but always, always glance back once more than necessary.
She tries to walk as if she doesn’t notice. I know the difference between fear and anticipation. The way she holds herself—tighter, sharper, alert—tells me the kiss did not frighten her.
It unsettled her, yes, but in the way a predator unsettles its match. Whatever that moment was, whatever lines were drawn and crossed and redrawn in the heat of that night, it is not over. It lingers in the air between us, a wire stretched taut.
Some of my staff sense it, though no one is foolish enough to comment. Miroslav is warier, more silent than usual. Yelena grows sharper, circling both of us like a jealous vulture. Even Markian watches me with a kind of amusement, a private joke that never reaches his lips.
The estate itself feels charged, like a storm building just over the horizon.
This morning, there is an internal security briefing. Routine. The entire team gathers in the small conference room, the air stale with tension and over-roasted coffee. I arrive late, as is my habit, and take my seat at the head of the table.
Talia stands at the far end, notes in hand, her hair caught back in a loose twist. She glances up as I enter and then lowers her gaze, forcing herself to focus.
She delivers her summary with clinical precision. She reviews incident logs, new protocols, subtle improvements she’s recommended. Her voice is steady, low but clear, and she never stumbles, never lets the room see anything but professionalism.
I see how her hands tremble just enough to betray her nerves. I see how she never quite looks my way, even when her words are meant for me.
I study every word she speaks, every small shift of posture, every flicker of her eyes. She feels it, and so do I. Her report is thorough. Impressively so. If the others notice my attention, they hide it well. When she finishes, she sits, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
The briefing drags on, more questions, more reports. I answer as needed, keeping my voice clipped, my expression unreadable. My mind keeps drifting back to her. Her mouth, her defiance, the way she let herself be kissed and kissed me back, hungry and wild and unbroken.
