Page 30 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Every time Dmitri’s hand slides a little higher, every time I tip my head back and laugh, I feel the air thicken. I know I am being watched. I know I am being claimed in ways that are silent but absolute.
Dmitri twirls me, and I catch a glimpse of Adrian at the edge of the crowd, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something too complex to name. Jealousy. Hunger. Fury. Maybe all three.
Yelena’s grip tightens on his arm, her face frozen in a smile meant to kill.
For the rest of the song, I let myself be swept along. I let the room see me. I let Adrian see me. I am a storm in black satin, lips painted with fire, laughing in the face of every danger that wants to cage me.
Tonight, I am not afraid of what I want. Tonight, I want to be wanted. I want him to burn.
The orchestra’s melody swells, spilling golden notes across the crowded ballroom. I let myself lean into the music, following Dmitri’s lead as he spins me through a waltz.
My laughter comes easy—too easy, maybe—but I want to be seen, want to be remembered as more than a shadow at the edge of the room.
I flirt, I tease, I rest my hand on Dmitri’s chest as we pivot through a turn, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his starched shirt.
No matter how many steps I take, I cannot outrun the burn of Adrian’s gaze. Even when I don’t look, I feel it, sharp and constant, trailing over my bare shoulders and down the line of my back. It’s possessive and territorial, a warning and a promise all at once. Each time Dmitri’s hand brushes my hip, the heat of it is almost overwhelming. Not because of the touch, but because I know Adrian is watching.
Then, suddenly, Adrian is gone. I catch a glimpse of him near the bar, head bent in conversation with Miroslav, their faces grave in the lamplight. Dmitri keeps the dance going, oblivious to the storm building at the edges of the room. I try to breathe through the mounting tension, but my smile grows brittle.
When the song ends, Dmitri bows with a flourish. Before I can thank him, Miroslav is at my side, his words as clipped and cold as the touch on my arm.
“He wants to talk to you.” No question, no pretense. The command is clear.
I let myself be guided through the press of bodies, each step tightening the knot in my chest. Adrian stands at the very center of the room, not waiting, not hiding.
When I reach him, he reaches out and catches me by the waist, pulling me flush against his side. The crowd ripples in response—eyes widening, conversations dropping into stunned silence.
I feel everyone watching, feel the weight of judgment and curiosity prickling against my skin. Yelena stands near the head table, red dress vivid as blood, her eyes drilling holes into me.
My breath catches, not from the intimacy of the hold, but from the boldness of it. This is no subtle claim, no secret game in the shadows. This is Adrian Sharov, king of the wolves, staking everything in front of his pack.
Someone near us—a distant cousin, maybe, or a long-time lieutenant—laughs in disbelief. “What’s this, Adrian?” he calls out, voice edged with amusement and warning both.
Adrian doesn’t release me. He raises his glass high, voice carrying clear across the hush.
“Yelena and I have ended our engagement,” he says, casual as if announcing the weather. His grip tightens at my waist. “I will be marrying this one instead.”
The ballroom freezes.
For a moment, there is nothing but stunned silence, the collective shock ringing louder than the music ever could. Then the room erupts in gasps and whispered curses, a few laughs of disbelief, the sharp clatter of a dropped glass.
Yelena’s face drains of color, her red lips curling into a snarl. For a moment I think she might lunge at us. Then sheturns on her heel and storms out, the doors swinging behind her with a thunderous crash.
I watch her go, my heart pounding in my throat. Around us, the buzz of conversation grows, people twisting in their seats to catch a better glimpse, voices rising in incredulous speculation. I don’t feel victorious.
There is no thrill in this. I feel hunted. Trapped. Adrian keeps his hand firm on my waist, anchoring me to his side as the room’s attention sharpens to a blade.
He bends his head to murmur in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “Smile,” he says quietly, the command gentle but absolute. “They’ll be waiting for you to crack.”
I try. I try to summon a smirk, a victorious little curve of my lips, but all I can manage is a strained imitation. My cheeks feel numb, my jaw locked. All I can think is:What have you done? What have I done?
Toasts begin to ring out. They’re forced at first, then louder as the shock gives way to spectacle. Champagne glasses lift, old men offer clipped congratulations, women murmur approval or feigned delight. Every word is a test, every glance a calculation.
I want to shrink away, but Adrian’s grip tightens, holding me steady, refusing to let me retreat.
I force myself to look up at him, searching for some explanation in his eyes. He meets my gaze, impassive and cold, the mask of command back in place. Beneath it I see the spark of something wild—reckless, maybe even desperate. I wonder if he regrets it, if this was a move made out of anger or possession, or something darker still.
The ballroom begins to recover, conversations swelling around us, laughter returning in cautious bursts. Peopleapproach, offering congratulations, questions, advice I don’t want or need. Adrian answers each one with perfect composure, never letting go of me. I stand at his side, playing the role he’s cast me in, but inside I am spinning, the floor tilting beneath my feet.
