Page 13 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

It’s the quiet finality in the way he says it, like I’m already his and I don’t know it yet. Like the rest of this is just a formality. “No one’s going to hurt you,” he says, gaze holding mine. “Unless you give them reason to.”

I stare at him, shaking. My breath comes in short, uneven pulls. My chest aches. My arms are going numb from how hard they’re holding me.

“I want to leave,” I whisper.

He blinks, slow and unbothered. “That’s not your decision anymore.”

Something in me snaps. I yank hard, adrenaline surging, and the guard’s grip slips just enough—I twist, wrenching myself free. One heel snaps beneath me but I don’t stop.

I run. The front door is ten feet away. Maybe less. If I can get outside, scream, someone might hear me. One of the staff, the neighbors, anyone.

I don’t care if I have to crawl. I reach for the handle—

Hands slam into me from behind.

I scream as I’m tackled, shoved hard against the wall beside the entrance. My cheek hits cold stone, my palms scraping against the paneling. One of the guards pins my arms behind my back again, this time with brutal precision.

“Stop!” I cry, thrashing uselessly. “Let me go! You can’t do this, you can’t just—”

Another set of hands grabs my waist, forcing me still. I twist, kick, bite down on a scream that tears from my throat anyway.

“Get off me!”

They don’t respond. They just hold. Unshakable. Unrelenting.

Tears sting my eyes, hot and sharp. Not from fear. From fury. From helplessness. From the humiliating realization that nothing I say or do matters.

I’m not in control.

I turn my head, panting, hair falling across my face, and lock eyes with him again.

Andrei hasn’t moved. He stands in the center of the foyer, hands in his pockets, coat still damp from the night air. Calm. Steady. Watching me like he’s seen this before. Like it amuses him. Like he enjoys watching things fall apart.

His expression doesn’t change.

Not when I screamed. Not when I ran. Not even now as I’m pinned to the wall like a criminal in my own home.

Only his eyes move—dragging over me with a kind of slow calculation that makes my skin crawl. Not lust. Not cruelty. Something colder.

Ownership.

“I told you,” he says finally, “you’re late.”

Then he turns away, and I scream.

I scream until my throat shreds from the force of it, until my voice cracks and gives out, until it’s not a sound anymore but a raw, animal noise ripped from somewhere deep inside me. The guard at my back shifts his stance, keeping my arms pinned as Isag against the wall, breathless and broken. My chest heaves. My face is wet. I don’t know if it’s tears or sweat or both.

Still, Andrei doesn’t look back.

He walks slowly toward my father, silent and composed, like I’m no longer worth his attention. Like I’ve already been dealt with.

The guards hold me in place, but I barely feel them anymore. My focus narrows to the figure in front of me—the one who walked into my home, destroyed the man who raised me, and now moves through this place like he owns it.

Maybe he does.

Chapter Four - Andrei

She screams like she means it. Not for attention. Not for theatrics. It’s the kind of scream that rips something loose from the inside, the sound of someone who just realized the world she knew is gone. I don’t turn around. I don’t need to.

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