Page 13 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
Because the truth is, I know who he is. There’s no warm-blooded female who’s ever encountered Adrian Rusnak that could forget him. His face is carved by angels, and his body is to die for. He also plays a very important role in the Bratva, so he’s always at Zoe and Lukin’s parties, even if just for a short while.
So yes, I do know him, but I’m not going to stand here and chitchat with him like we’re friends because he might look like an angel, but he’s evil personified.
When he doesn’t respond, I force myself to straighten, to breathe. “Are you with them? Is this about my brother?”
For a beat, he says nothing.
His silence is loud. Heavy.
Then, finally, his voice—low and deliberate—slips into the space between us. “What makes you think you’ve seen me before?”
I blink. “I—I just said. You look like—”
“No,” he says. “Not them. Me.”
There’s something unnerving in the way he says it. Almost like…he’s waiting for me to remember something I shouldn’t. Something I don’t even know I’ve forgotten.
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know you.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t confirm or deny.
That’s what makes it worse.
“I’m Adrian Rusnak. I’m not here for your piece of shit brother. I’m here for you.”
I gasp, not knowing whether to be offended at the rude way he addressed my brother, or be intrigued that he’s here for me. I choose the latter. Logan stole millions from him; he’s entitled to calling him a piece of shit. But why’s he here for me?
“Why are you here for me?” My eyes roam his face, searching his piercing green eyes. Goodness gracious, he’s beautiful.
I stare at him, trying to read his face. His posture. His expression. Anything.
But he’s unreadable.
Cold. Still. Like a man carved from quiet war. He shoves his hands into his pockets and pins me with a stare.
“Your brother will die tonight,” he says. “Unless you’re ready to trade your life for his.”
I blink. “What?”
“You will marry me,” he continues, voice like ice melting over steel. “Tonight. Or Logan gets buried at dawn.”
A sharp breath escapes my chest before I can stop it.
For a moment, I think maybe I misheard him. Maybe this is some terrible joke. A really, really messed-up joke.
I laugh. Short, breathless, disbelieving. “You must be joking.”
He doesn’t blink.
His eyes stay locked on mine, green and bottomless.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
The laughter drains out of me like blood from a wound.
No. He doesn’t.
He looks like a nightmare dressed in black.
