Page 39 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
I stay in my room the entire day.
I don’t eat. I don’t nap. I don’t even open the door when someone knocks softly with what I assume is lunch—or dinner. Maybe both. I just pace, sulk, and listen to the quiet creak of the mansion settling under its own weight.
By nightfall, the estate slips into a thick, eerie hush. I peek through the curtains and see the guards have rotated. A few dim lights flicker across the lawn, but the rest of the house feels asleep.
My heart hammers.
Now or never.
I slip on a hoodie and jeans, the softest shoes I own, and tiptoe out of my room like I’m still in my college apartment sneaking into the kitchen for midnight cookies. Only this isn’t cookies. This is desperation.
The hallway is darker than I expected, but I remember the turns. I mapped them all out in my head while stewing in my anger all day. Down one flight, then another, until the wallpaper turns to stone and the scent of aged wood and expensive wine grows heavy.
The cellar is exactly where I thought it would be—tucked beneath the east wing, behind a heavy door with an antique handle. I twist it slowly and slip inside, praying there’s no security camera or silent alarm.
Rows of bottles gleam in the low light. The air is cold and musty.
I scan the walls, ignoring the ridiculous thought that Adrian might keep a secret tunnel hidden behind a stack of merlot. But I’m desperate enough to believe anything right now.
I start at the back, running my fingers along the brick, pressing on any section that looks even slightly uneven. A loose tile. A hollow thud. A draft.
Nothing.
My fingers start to go numb, but I keep searching, pushing against the walls and squinting into the shadows.
I don’t have a plan beyond this—I just need to find something. An opening. A passage. A crack in the armor.
I keep searching.
My hands are raw from dragging over stone, fingertips tender from pressing against every uneven groove in the cellar wall. My breath clouds the air in front of me, sharp and cold, but my skin is slick with sweat beneath my hoodie. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here—an hour? Maybe more. The cold has sunk into my bones.
I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
I crouch beside an old wine rack and tap the wall behind it. Just in case. I drag it slightly to the side, gritting my teeth as the wood screeches against the floor, but nothing waits behind it. No door. No handle. No magical escape route that frees kidnapped brides from the clutches of brutal, psychotic husbands.
A sob catches in my throat.
I press a hand to my chest, willing myself to keep it together, but my eyes blur anyway. A hot tear slides down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away, furious with myself. Crying won’t help. I need to think. I need to focus.
I rest my forehead against the wall, the stone icy against my skin. “Please,” I whisper, though I’m not even sure who I’m begging. God? Fate?
I breathe through the ache, trying to push the panic back down.
But for the first time since I said yes, it hits me fully—I’m trapped. Locked inside a castle I didn’t choose, married to a man I can’t understand, and completely alone.
“How long will you keep searching? You’ll never find escape.”
I gasp and whirl around so fast I nearly trip. Adrian’s standing there—no sound, no warning—just him, watching me with that unreadable expression and eyes dark as sin. I didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear footsteps. He’s just…there.
I stumble back until my spine hits the cold stone, breath caught in my throat. My heart slams wildly against my ribs, fear rushing through me like wildfire.
He doesn’t stop.
He comes closer, slow and steady, like a storm rolling in. His footsteps echo against the floor, measured and precise, like he has all the time in the world to devour me.
Then he’s in front of me.
