Page 13 of Plus-Size Curves for the Bratva

I process his words, torn between irritation and a grudging sense of security. My heart races. Can I trust him? Should I?

"That's… unexpected," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "But how do I know you'll keep your word?"

He takes another step closer, and I fight the urge to back away. "I'm not one of your brothers, Natalia. I won't force you home or lock you away."

The mention of my brothers sends a chill down my spine. I can almost hear Nikolai's stern voice, see Dima's disapproving scowl. They'd drag me back without a second thought, my dreams be damned.

"You really mean that?" I ask, unable to hide the surprise in my voice. "You'd let me… do my thing?"

Denis nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "On one condition," he says, and I brace myself. "I accompany you. To ensure your safety.Withoutruining your plans, whatever they may be."

I consider his offer. It's more freedom than I ever expected, yet still feels like a compromise. But as I look into Denis's intense gaze, I realize it might be the best option I have.

"Fine," I concede, trying to sound annoyed despite the relief flooding through me. "But don't think this means you tell me what to do, Zolotov."

He chuckles, a deep, rich sound that catches me off guard. "I wouldn't dream of it. Now, where exactly were you heading at this ungodly hour?"

I bite my lip, suddenly feeling exposed. My dreams have always been my secret, tucked away from prying eyes and judgmental stares. But something in Denis's gaze, a flicker of genuine curiosity, makes me want to share.

"I… I design clothes," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's silly, I know, but—"

"It's not silly," Denis interrupts, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Tell me more."

The encouragement in his voice sends a thrill through me. "Well, I've always loved fashion," I explain, my words tumbling out faster now. "The way fabric drapes, how a perfect cut can transform a person. I want to create pieces that make people feel beautiful, no matter their size or shape."

I pause, realizing I'm rambling, but Denis's eyes are fixed on me, attentive and… interested? It's so different from his usual intensity that I find myself continuing.

"I've been sketching designs for years," I confess, a hint of pride creeping into my voice. "But now, I want to bring them to life. I always wanted this to be my backup when I moved out, but could never act on it because the wedding happened. But I don’t want to live with the regrets of what-ifs. That's why I'm here now—to source fabrics, to start making my dreams real."

Denis nods slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. "And your family doesn't know?"

I shake my head, feeling a familiar pang of guilt. "They'd never understand. To them, I'm just…" I gesture at my curvy figure, "…Natalia. But when I design, I feel powerful. Beautiful. Like I can be more than what they see."

"You are more," Denis says softly, making me catch my breath. "I'd like to see your designs sometime if you're willing to share them."

I blink, startled by his request. His genuine interest throws me off balance, but in a way that's not entirely unpleasant.

"Maybe," I reply, a small smile tugging at my lips. "If you behave yourself."

Denis chuckles, and I'm struck by how the sound transforms his face, softening the hard lines and making him look younger, almost… approachable.

"I'll do my best," he promises, and for a moment, I believe him.

I steel myself for what's to come. "Alright, follow me," I say, leading Denis through the narrow, winding streets. The sky is just beginning to lighten, but the market is already alive with activity.

As we round the corner, a riot of colors and sounds assaults my senses. Fabric stalls line the cobblestone paths, their vibrant wares fluttering in the early morning breeze. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread, mingling with the earthy smell of raw silk and cotton.

Denis's eyes widen as he takes in the bustling scene. "It's so busy," he murmurs, his gaze darting from vendor to vendor. "At this hour?"

I can't help but smile at his surprise. "Early bird gets the worm," I explain, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. "Or in this case, the best fabrics. Everything good sells out fast."

We approach my favorite supplier, an older woman with kind eyes and weathered hands. I examine a bolt of emerald silk and ask the price. When it’s too much, I frown and put it down but Denis leans in close, his voice low in my ear.

"Allow me," he says, and before I can protest, he's engaged the vendor in rapid-fire back and forth.

I watch, slack-jawed, as Denis negotiates with a skill I never would have expected. His commanding presence seems to fill the small stall, yet there's a charm to his interactions that catches me off guard. The vendor, surprisingly, is smiling through it all and eventually gives me a rate of 30% less than what she originally said.

"How did you do that?" I whisper as we move to the next stall, my arms now laden with fabric at a price I couldn't have dreamed of.

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