Page 11 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

I know this house. Every creak, every shadow. I know what silence is supposed to sound like. This isn’t it.

My heels echo too loudly as I walk deeper into the foyer.

“Dad?” I call softly, already knowing there won’t be an answer.

Something is wrong.

The air smells strange—coppery, metallic. Faint, but present. It clings to the back of my throat. I step past the grand staircase, hand trailing along the polished wood of the banister, trying to anchor myself. My heart is starting to pound.

Then I see it.

At the far end of the foyer, in the center of the marble floor—he’s there. My father. On his knees.

His head hangs low, body slumped forward. Blood stains the front of his shirt, dried and crusted around his mouth and collar. His arms are bound behind him, the rope cutting deep into his skin. His right eye is swollen shut, lips split. His breath rattles, uneven and pained.

Surrounded.

Two men stand behind him, one to each side—silent, still, waiting. Armed. But it’s the third man, the one standing just behind them, who makes the air vanish from my lungs entirely.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair and a severe expression.

A dark coat clings to his broad frame, rain-slicked and heavy. The light from the chandelier above catches on the sharp planes of his face—high cheekbones, an angular jaw, and eyes like glass. Cold, brown, unreadable. The kind of eyes that don’t blink at pain. That don’t flinch at screams.

Andrei Sharov.

I don’t know him personally, but I know the name. The face.

Everyone does.

The whispers follow it like smoke—Bratva, enforcer, butcher. The kind of man you don’t cross unless you’ve stopped caring about breathing.

My pulse slams against my ribs. I can’t speak. Can’t move.

His gaze shifts slowly, locking on to mine. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks like he’s been waiting. Like he planned this.

Then he starts walking. Each step echoes off the stone like a clock ticking down to something I don’t want to understand.

His eyes drag over me—head to toe, slow and assessing. Not like a man seeing a woman. Like a predator learning the shape of its prey. Measuring how long it’ll take to sink his teeth in.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the smoke on his coat. His mouth curves into something cruel and deliberate.

“You’re late,” he says.

Two words, soft as silk and twice as dangerous. My throat is dry. “What… what is this?”

Andrei tilts his head slightly, like he’s amused I had the nerve to speak.

“This,” he says, gesturing behind him with a flick of his hand, “is consequence.”

I glance past him. My father hasn’t moved. His head hangs lower now, as if the sound of my voice is too much to bear.

“You can’t be here,” I whisper. “This is—this is private property.”

Andrei’s eyes narrow slightly. “Still clinging to rules, even now. That’s adorable.”

I back up a step. He follows.

“You’re trespassing,” I say, voice shaking. “You need to leave. Now.”

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