Page 46 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I avoid the east wing. I keep the memory of the burned folder close to my chest, the scrawled initials—E.R.—burning brighter than the lamp I leave on by the bed.
Adrian’s absence stretches late into the night. I listen to every footstep on the marble, every distant voice, every scrape of wind at the window, convinced that at any moment I’ll be found out, dragged from my room and confronted with everything I’ve stolen.
My heart is frantic but focused:my brother is alive. My brother is out there, somewhere. Adrian Sharov is going to tell me where.
Sleep is a stranger. I lie in bed fully clothed, the ring on my finger suddenly a shackle, the mattress too soft, the sheetstoo smooth. I replay every moment with Adrian since the day I arrived. The lies. The tenderness. The violence. The ways he’s protected me, the ways he’s used me. The night burns in my memory—his hands, his mouth, his voice low and rough in my ear, all of it mingled now with the betrayal I can’t forgive.
When I hear him finally coming up the stairs after midnight, I close my eyes and force my breathing to even out, my body tense and unmoving beneath the covers. He pauses in the doorway for a moment, then enters, shedding his jacket in the dark. I feel him standing over me, the heat of his gaze pressing into my skin.
A careful hand skims down my arm, fingers ghosting over my wrist, my hip, my thigh—gentle, searching for any sign that I’m awake, that I’ll welcome him. I don’t move. I don’t give him anything.
I hold my breath, waiting, my body rigid beneath the illusion of sleep. For a long moment he lingers, his hand pressed flat over my heart, as if he could read the truth in the wild pounding beneath my ribs.
Then, with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a curse, he gives up. Adrian could go back to his own room now. Probably would, on a normal night.
Tonight, he rolls away from me, the bed shifting under his weight, his back turned, breath slow and heavy in the darkness. I wait until his breathing settles, until I’m sure he’s asleep, before I dare to move.
I slip out from under the covers, my bare feet whispering against the cold floor. I tiptoe to the bathroom, shutting the door softly, locking it just in case. The room is shadowed and strange, full of marble and chrome.
I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can bear. Steam fills the room, fogging the mirror, turning the world hazy and unreal.
I sit down, curling my knees to my chest, letting the spray beat down over my head and shoulders, wishing I could wash away his touch. Wishing I could erase the memory of the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel—wanted, hated, needed, ruined.
I scrub my skin until it stings, tears hot and silent on my cheeks, hidden by the shower’s relentless fall.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t wash him out. I can’t erase what’s happened, what I’ve discovered, what I have to do next.
When the water runs cold, I turn off the tap and wrap myself in a towel, pressing my forehead to the mirror. My reflection is pale, hollow-eyed, the mark on my neck still dark from where he claimed me. I touch it, wincing, and remind myself of what matters. Eli is alive. I have proof. That hope is a wildfire in my chest, burning away the helplessness I’ve felt for so long.
I creep back into the bedroom, drying off quietly, careful not to wake him. I slip into bed and lie on my side, staring at the wall.
Adrian is motionless, his breathing deep and steady, his face turned away. For a moment, I watch him, my anger and longing tangled so tightly I can’t separate one from the other.
Tomorrow, I’ll confront him. Tomorrow, I’ll demand the truth. No more games, no more lies, no more letting him choose when to touch me, when to keep me in the dark. I turn the ring on my finger, feeling its cold, unyielding weight.
My brother is out there, and I will do whatever it takes to bring him home—even if it means tearing this world apart, even if it means destroying Adrian Sharov piece by piece.
I lie awake until the first hint of dawn creeps across the ceiling, my body exhausted, my mind sharp as glass. I listen to Adrian breathe, every sound a reminder that the man I married is not my savior, not my lover, not my home. He’s my enemy now.
Chapter Twenty - Adrian
The house is restless tonight, the air humming with the kind of tension that makes every shadow look like a threat. The storm has blown itself out, but something electric still hangs between the stone walls, sharp and cold.
I’m in my office, eyes half closed, the dregs of vodka untouched at my elbow, when my security lieutenant slips inside. He doesn’t knock—he knows better than to waste time.
“There’s been an alert,” he says, his voice pitched low. “Just past midnight. Unauthorized access. Lower archives.”
My mind sharpens in an instant. “Who?”
He swallows, hesitation flickering. “It’s… your wife. We caught her on camera. She picked the lock on the storage room. She… she went through the classified files, sir. The old ones. Even your top men don’t touch those.”
The words hang between us, heavy as iron. I say nothing for a long minute, watching my reflection in the window, the city stretched silent below. Betrayal. I’d prepared myself for this, hadn’t I? I’d known something didn’t fit. Hearing it—the confirmation—still feels like a blade.
Finally, I mutter, “Leave.” My voice is colder than the glass. The man vanishes.
I turn to my desk and pull up the security footage, hands steady, jaw clenched. I watch it frame by frame, searching for answers.
Talia moves through the old storage room like a ghost, her hair loose, face set in lines I’ve never seen. She bends over the cabinet, picks the lock with practiced hands. She doesn’t hesitate. Not once. She rifles through the files, turning pages,scanning names and codes even my most trusted men know better than to touch.
