Page 26 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
My notebook lies closed on the bed beside me, its pages dense with names, notes, questions—reminders of my mission. I stare at the ceiling, lips parted, breath shallow. I can still feel him. I can still taste the press of his mouth, the command in his hands, the dark pull of his eyes on mine.
Frustration burns in my chest, tangled with something softer, something that makes me want to cry out in anger and need. I try to focus on my plans, on the lines I wrote again and again:Find the evidence. Get close enough for answers. Stay in control.
It’s not enough to drown out what’s pulsing inside me.
I whisper out loud, just to hear the words, just to test them on my tongue. “Let him want me.” I mean it as a strategy. I mean, let him be distracted, let him show his secrets, let me use his obsession against him.
The way my voice sounds—low and shaky, almost pleading—it isn’t strategy at all. It’s raw, confessional, too close to wanting in its own right.
My hands curl into the blanket. I close my eyes and try again, my voice steadier this time. “Let him give me the answers.” That’s the goal, the truth, the thing I have to keep at the center. It doesn’t feel true. Not entirely. Not tonight.
As my eyes drift closed, as I slip beneath the covers, my body is still humming with heat, with hunger that has nothing to do with revenge. Nothing to do with Eli, or the mission, or thelies I have wrapped around myself like armor. It is just want—hot and simple and terrifying.
I let my hand drift under the hem of my shirt, fingers splaying across the warmth of my belly, tracing up, then down, searching for something to anchor me. My breath stutters, slow at first, as I imagine his hands instead of mine: callused, sure, strong. I picture him crowding me against the cabinet, mouth bruising, his voice low and rough as he tells me I’m not as innocent as I pretend.
My hips lift, a soft gasp breaking the quiet. I can see him, in my mind, stalking closer, eyes hard, jaw set, body all tension and command. I remember the taste of him, the heat of his mouth, the press of his thigh between mine. I slide my hand lower, circling slow, letting the pleasure build.
It’s easier to let go like this, alone, in the dark, with only my imagination for company. I picture him pinning my wrists, his voice at my ear, whispering all the things he would never say in daylight. I think of the way he looked at me, hungry and helpless, just for a heartbeat. The way his control slipped, the way mine did too.
I bite my lip, breath coming harder, hips shifting restlessly under the sheets. My fingers move faster, slick and sure, chasing the memory of his touch. I imagine him growling my name, dragging his teeth over my throat, punishing me for every defiance, every challenge. I let myself want him fully. No guilt, no shame, just the sharp sweet burn of it.
It doesn’t take long. My body is wound so tight, every nerve raw. The pleasure crests, hard and bright, and I press my palm over my mouth to stifle the sound, as if even now the walls might listen. I come undone thinking of him, the enemy, the man I’m supposed to ruin. The man who could ruin me too.
When it’s over, I lie trembling in the silence, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. My heart still races. My mind is blurry, heavy with satisfaction and dread.
This isn’t about justice anymore. Not tonight. It’s about him, about the heat and the danger and the way I ache for more even as I try to hate him.
I let my hand linger on my thigh, the aftershocks rippling through me, sharper than guilt, sharper than grief. My chest rises and falls too fast. I want to call myself weak, or reckless, but there’s a kind of freedom in admitting the truth, even if only here, alone in the dark. I want him.
I want the risk, the collision, the promise of his mouth on mine. Even as I try to recall the reasons I came here—the evidence, Eli, the vow I swore—I can’t chase away the shadow of his hands, the way his voice curls through me and undoes every one of my defenses.
My body thrums with memory, but my mind spins in circles. I tell myself I can control this. That if I let him believe I’m his, he’ll trust me. He’ll let his guard down. I can play the part—let him think I’m broken open, let him give me what I need.
Underneath, I’m afraid. Not of him, or of being caught. I’m afraid of what I might give away. Of how much I want to surrender, just for a night, just to see if he’d let me burn in his hands.
Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, breath slowing, heart pounding a steady, unsteady beat. Tomorrow, I’ll put on my armor again. I’ll be sharp, careful, untouchable.
Tonight, I let myself feel it. The hunger. The need. The bone-deep ache that says there’s more to lose here than I ever imagined.
In the quiet, I promise myself that this is only a means to an end. That I’ll remember what I’m fighting for.
The truth is, I’m already afraid I’ve lost that war.
Chapter Twelve - Adrian
Miroslav finds me in my office late in the afternoon, carrying a tablet, his posture tight and efficient. He knocks once before entering, but he never waits for permission. He stands by my desk, scrolling through messages I have not had the patience to check.
“There’s the matter of tonight’s event,” he says, voice even. “The spring charity ball. You’re expected to attend.”
I look up from the contract I am pretending to read, my patience already worn thin from a day of pointless reports and petty crises. “What ball?” I ask, too sharp.
Miroslav doesn’t flinch. “The Bratva’s spring ball, at the old Zolotov estate. You organized it yourself, last year.”
A flicker of irritation sparks in my chest. I have no memory of doing so. The days bleed together—meetings, threats, a thousand obligations I would rather delegate than endure. “Did I?” I ask, tone cold. “I do not recall.”
Miroslav shrugs, setting the tablet on the edge of my desk. “It’s on your calendar. Yelena’s people have confirmed her dress fitting twice.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. The thought of a crowded ballroom, of handshakes and veiled threats wrapped in expensive smiles, holds no appeal. I would rather spend the night in solitude or at least somewhere I can control the outcome. “If I must go, I’ll go.”
