Page 22 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
Fucker.
He lifts his head slowly, lids heavy, lips barely parting. But no words come out. Not even a groan.
Too spent.
Too broken.
Good.
I step closer, the weight of my footsteps echoing against the cold walls. He lifts his eyes just enough to register me.
There’s a flicker of fear there.
There should be.
I crouch in front of him, resting my forearms on my knees, letting him see me up close. Blood still stains my hands. My jaw ticks.
“Tomorrow,” I say, voice low, even, “I marry your sister.”
His breath catches.
“Not because of you. You don’t deserve shit,” I continue. “But because I want her. And now I have a reason to take her.”
He swallows, barely.
“I could’ve ended you the second we caught you trying to run. But you’re breathing because she begged for your life. Remember that.”
I stand slowly, looking down at him like he’s nothing.
“Enjoy the next twenty-four hours. They’re the only mercy you’ll ever get from me.” I turn to Zalar. “Lock it.”
The door slams shut behind me. We step out into the night air.
Zalar walks beside me in silence until I speak.
“Take the jeep,” I say, voice low and clipped. “Go help Jennie pack. Take her to the estate.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stop just outside the garage, turning to face him fully. “And make sure she’s comfortable.”
Zalar meets my eyes, understanding something deeper beneath the words.
“Give her whatever she wants. She’s my wife.”
His chin dips in a solid nod. “Yes, sir.”
I hold out my hand. “Let me have my keys.”
Zalar digs them from his jacket pocket and hands them over without hesitation. Then he turns and heads toward the jeep, already moving.
I climb into my own car, slide behind the wheel, and fire up the engine. The rumble of it fills the air, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the thoughts.
She’s my wife.
I grip the wheel harder.
Whether she’s ready or not, whether she hates me or not…she’s mine now.
