Page 56 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
“What?” I graze her neck, trying desperately to curb my arousal. “I want to rip the dress off you right now and fuck you right here.”
She swallows and meets my eyes, and I see the fleck of green in her brown orbs. “You are so beautiful.” I want to kiss her again, but I don’t want to mess with her lipstick, so I settle for a forehead kiss and take her arm, hoping my erection goes down before we reach the terrace.
I lead her up to the terrace, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the evening sky. The air is soft and scented with jasmine from the garden below. The table is set for two—wine chilling in a silver bucket, plates of delicate starters already laid out, soft instrumental music playing from somewhere in the shadows.
She stops short when she sees it. Her eyes widen, mouth parting in a gasp.
“When did you have time to set this up?” she asks, turning to me as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing.
I shrug, casually. “I’m not one to tell my secrets. Come.”
I offer my hand, and she takes it without thinking. I guide her toward the table, her eyes still scanning everything, taking in the soft lights, the white roses, the faint scent of citrus candles burning between us. She thinks she’s hiding her reaction, but I can see it—the way her gaze lingers on the details, the way her body shifts closer to me as if unconsciously drawn in.
She starts to pull out the chair across from mine.
“No,” I say gently but firmly, guiding her toward the seat right next to me at the small round table. I pull out a chair for her, help her settle into it, then sit beside her, close enough that our knees touch.
“You’re not getting away from me that easy tonight,kroshka.”
I lift the silver lid off her plate with a bit of dramatic flair. “Tonight’s starter is grilled scallops with lemon butter. Try not to fall in love.”
She laughs lightly, the sound soft and unguarded. “Is that a promise or a warning?”
“Depends on how good the scallops are,” I say, taking a bite of mine.
She does the same, and I watch her expression carefully. Her brows lift, then she nods slowly, chewing.
“Okay,” she says. “You might be onto something.”
“Told you.”
We eat for a moment in silence, the atmosphere unusually calm—almost too normal, like I didn’t force her into a marriage under the threat of blood. Her bare shoulder brushes mine, and she doesn’t pull away.
“Do you even cook?” she asks, sipping from her wineglass.
I shake my head. “Not unless violence counts as a cooking method.”
She snorts. “That sounds about right.”
“Come on, Jennie,” I smile. “I have chefs. I use my time for things I actually know how to do.”
She nods slowly. “What do you even do when you’re not threatening people?”
I smirk. “I collect vintage watches.”
“Liar.”
“I do.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You? Watches?”
“I like precision. The discipline. The history. You’d be surprised what that says about a man.”
Her smile curves softly now. “Okay. That’s kind of cool.”
I nod toward her fork. “Your turn. What do you do when you’re not trying to throw plates at my head?”
She sets her fork down and leans slightly toward me, swirling the wine in her glass. “You want to know what I actually do when I’m not dodging your death threats?”
