Page 43 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Talia hovers just outside the threshold, arms folded tight against her chest, bare toes curling on the cold floor. She eyes the reinforced walls and rows of locked cabinets, one brow arched.
“This where you torture your wives?” she asks, her voice brittle with false bravado.
I glance at her, letting a small smile slip through. Amused, but not indulgent. “Only the disobedient ones.”
That wipes the smirk off her face, but only for a moment. She steps inside, shoulders set, chin up. She isn’t afraid, or if she is, she refuses to show it.
The room is a vault of secrets: guns, stacks of files, old photographs, enough hard currency to buy and sell allegiances for a decade. The air smells of cold metal and something darker. I open a drawer, remove a pistol, and hold it out to her, grip first.
She stares at it, jaw clenched. Her hands tremble when she takes it. I watch, saying nothing. Let her feel the weight. Let her see the kind of world she’s married into.
“You’re not a civilian anymore,” I say, calm, matter-of-fact. “You need to learn how to survive.”
Talia lifts the weapon, tries to steady it in both hands. Her grip is awkward, but her stubbornness keeps her from asking for help. I step behind her, correcting her hold, showing her thesafety, the balance, the line of sight. My hands brush her wrists. She flinches but doesn’t move away.
“It’s not just about pulling the trigger,” I murmur. “It’s about never hesitating.”
We run through the basics—grip, stance, how to check if the chamber’s clear. She’s silent, intent, absorbing every word. The storm outside fades further, replaced by the click of metal, the hush of breath in the shadows.
I watch her face as she aims, the careful mask of control, the flicker of vulnerability when the barrel wavers. She tries to hide her nerves, but I see the way her breath comes quicker, the way her pulse beats just under her jaw.
Then, quietly, I change the subject. “Why did you come to me, Talia?”
She blinks, caught off guard by the shift. She lowers the gun, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”
I step closer, forcing her back until her shoulders touch the row of lockers behind her. The pistol dangles at her side. Her breathing quickens, a mix of adrenaline and defiance. She tilts her chin up, refusing to look away.
“Why approach me, and why take the risk?” I keep my voice low, my gaze hard. “What are you really after?”
She doesn’t answer right away. I can see the calculation behind her eyes—the old habits of lying, of stalling. She searches my face, measuring what she can give away and what she can’t.
Finally, her voice is soft but steady. “I’m looking for something.” She pauses, then adds, “Or maybe someone.”
The honesty catches me off guard. I search her eyes for betrayal, for anything I can use. She’s closed off, too stubborn to surrender.
I lean in, my body close enough to block her exit. “Who?” I press.
She tries to laugh it off, flashing that bratty, sharp-edged grin. “Don’t worry, Adrian, I’m not here to kill you.”
Her tone is flippant, designed to push me back, but her eyes burn with challenge. She wants me to underestimate her. She wants me to let her go. I’m done playing nice.
I reach up, pinning her wrist against the metal locker, the gun held between us. “No more jokes,” I say, my voice flat. “You want to stay in this house, in my life, you tell me the truth. Who sent you?”
She stiffens, mouth pressed in a thin line, but doesn’t look away. “No one sent me. I sent myself.”
I stare at her, searching for the crack in the armor. She holds, refusing to cower. That stubborn pride—the same pride that drew me to her, the same pride that could get us both killed.
“You expect me to believe that?” I ask, tightening my hold, pushing the question like a knife.
“I don’t care what you believe,” she snaps, breathless now. “I’m here for my own reasons. I want answers. About you, about this family, about what happened before I ever showed up.”
I study her face. She’s hiding something, but not the way a traitor does. There’s pain there, and purpose. It intrigues me more than I want to admit.
I let her wrist go, stepping back just enough to give her air. She rubs at the spot, glaring at me with fury and—if I’m not mistaken—a flicker of fear.
“You want to survive here?” I say, quieter. “Learn to shoot. Learn to lie better. Stop thinking you’re smarter than everyone else.”
She straightens, fire back in her eyes. “Maybe I am.”
