Page 35 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
I’ll let her sleep.
Even if I can’t.
Even if I’m the one who stole her peace to find mine.
Almost an hour later, she’s out cold.
Her face soft in sleep, one hand curled by her cheek like she’s still dreaming of something gentler than me. Maybe someone.
But I can’t lie still anymore.
The quiet is too loud. My head won’t stop.
Carefully, I slide my arm out from under her, lifting her head just enough to set it on the pillow. She doesn’t stir. She’s gone deep, like her body finally gave out.
I sit at the edge of the bed for a moment, rubbing my chest, that dull ache still there like something’s stuck under my ribcage. Should I take off her wedding dress? I feel like I should,but I know she’ll hate it in the morning. As uncomfortable as the dress looks, I’ll leave it on her. It won’t hurt.
I pace the room once, then again. My fists clench. My jaw tightens.
I should go to my study. Grab a drink. Kill the silence. But just as I open the door, I notice it—her suitcase sitting against the wall where Zalar must’ve dropped it earlier. Untouched.
I drag the luggage into the room and crouch. The zipper is smooth, the sound slicing through the silence like sin.
Clothes. Soft, simple, pastel. Neatly folded. Of course. I’m about to close the luggage again when I find it, tucked between a sweater and a book. A soft leather journal. Worn and personal.
I should stop. I know I should. But I don’t.
I flip it open, careful with the spine, like it might scream if I crack it. Pages of scribbles. Notes on abnormal psych. Little doodles in the margins. Lyrics and quotes about healing. Something about a serial killer.
Then I freeze.
Near the back—tucked into a blank page like it doesn’t belong there—is a tiny pencil sketch.
Of me.
My breath catches.
It’s rough but unmistakable. The hard lines of my jaw. The haunted stare. The shoulders. The scar just under my eye.
It’s me.
No doubt.
But it’s not from today. Or yesterday. It’s from before. Months ago, maybe more. I know because of the shirt I’m wearing. One I haven’t worn in months. I sit back on my heels, staring at the drawing. She saw me. Before I ever knocked on her door.
She knew me.
And she remembered.
The moment at her apartment flashes in my mind—her shocked whisper, “You?” Not fear. Recognition.
She lied about it, but this is enough evidence to prove that she noticed me before. Just like I noticed her. I turn my head to stare at her sleeping form, my heart beating silently, wondering what this means and what tomorrow will bring.
Chapter 7 – Jennie
I wake up to silence. To warmth. To satin sheets that don’t belong to me.
For a moment, I think maybe I dreamed everything—the black dahlia bouquet, the chapel filled with strangers, Adrian’s icy vow,You’re mine now.
