Page 9 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

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I blink, jaw tightening. My fingers twitch at my side.

“I’ll handle it,” I whisper finally.

A pause on his end.

Then, “Good. Let me know what you decide.”

The line goes dead.

I lower the phone, staring at nothing.

The decision’s already made.

And this time…I’m not watching from afar.

This time, I’m taking her.

Yes, I’m selfish, I never claimed otherwise.

The phone is still warm in my hand when I snap. I turn—fast, hard—and attack the bastard in the metal chair, driving my fist into the man’s face.

He jerks, groans, barely conscious. Doesn’t matter.

I don’t stop.

One punch.

Then another.

Then five more.

I don’t count. I don’t think.

I just hit.

Bone cracks. Blood sprays. The sound of cartilage collapsing under my knuckles is dull and wet. His face turns to pulp beneath my fists. His skull bounces once against the metal chair, then goes limp.

Still, I punch.

Because the image of her won’t leave my head.

Because I can’t have something that pure without destroying it first.

And because now—I will have her.

Zalar clears his throat behind me. Calm. Firm.

“Boss…he’s dead.”

I stop mid-swing.

My chest heaves. My fists are soaked. My breathing sounds like thunder in the hollow of the warehouse.

The man’s head lolls to the side, jaw slack, face unrecognizable.

I let my bloodied hand fall, fingers twitching from the impact.

Staring down at the corpse, I feel nothing.

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