Page 103 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Now, watching her, feeling her warmth against my side, I know with a certainty that terrifies me.

She isn’t just part of my world. Sheismy world.

She smiles again—small, knowing—and rests her head against my shoulder.

We stand like that for a long time.

The night stretches around us, thick and soft as velvet.

We drift into conversation without thinking, the way people do when they’ve fought every war that matters and found themselves still standing, side by side.

Maxim’s latest negotiations with an old French syndicate, a delicate balance of favors and threats. A real estate deal in Prague that finally closed that morning—one that will strengthen our foothold across Europe. Quiet victories. The kind of talk people have when they trust each other with more than just their lives.

I watch her as she listens, the way her lips curve when she’s amused, the way her eyes sharpen when she’s curious. There’s a subtlety to her that most men would miss—but not me.

It isn’t what she says.

It’s what she means.

My chest tightens with everything unsaid.

Every time she smiles without fear. Every glance that lingers longer than necessary. Every unconscious touch—her hand brushing mine, her body leaning into my space like it belongs there.

The night feels important somehow. Heavy in my veins. Electric in my bones. Like the world could shift with a breath and neither of us would stop it.

She finishes the last sip of wine from her glass and sets it down carefully on the railing. I see her fingers tremble slightly—not from fear. From knowing.

Knowing what’s about to happen. Knowing she has to choose it.

She turns toward me, her heart pounding so hard I can see the tremor in her throat.

I watch her.

For a long moment, I let her look at me—cut from stone, shaped by violence and survival. I let her see all of it. The man, the monster, everything in between.

She doesn’t flinch. She chooses me.

With devastating slowness, I lift my hands.

I cup her face between them—large, rough palms cradling her cheeks with the kind of care that doesn’t belong in my world. My thumbs brush along her cheekbones, the faint calluses catching slightly against her skin.

What I’m capable of. What I hold back—for her.

“I love you,” I murmur.

My voice cracks at the edges, low and almost broken by how much I mean it.

She closes her eyes, breathing me in. Then her mouth is on mine. Not harshly. It’s deep. Possessive. Tender and consuming all at once.

She melts into me. Her hands fist in my shirt, clinging like she’ll never let go. I tighten my grip, grounding her to me as the night spins, the rain-washed air cooling the heat rising between us.

I kiss her like a man making a vow without words. She kisses me back like a woman finally brave enough to believe it.

When we finally pull apart, the space between us feels unbearable. I lean my forehead against hers, our breath mingling in the chilled air.

I take her hand in mine, turning her palm up. My thumb traces the center of it, slow and deliberate, memorizing the lines written there.

“You could still run,” I say finally, voice barely above a whisper.

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