Page 14 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

The sound tells me everything.

She’s broken, not in the way that leaves visible cracks, but in the way that bends something deep and soft and irreplaceable. That scream wasn’t for her father. It wasn’t even for me. It was for the version of herself that still believed there were rules. That someone would come running. That she was safe.

Now she knows better.

I stop in front of Richard Carter. He’s still on his knees, head tilted back, blood caked at the corner of his mouth. He looks smaller than he did an hour ago. Smaller than he’s ever looked. His suit hangs off his frame now, soaked through with sweat and defeat. The silk tie, once knotted with precision, dangles loose at his chest like a noose someone forgot to tighten. His pride is leaking out of him like blood.

His lips twitch, and for a second I think he might try to say something. But he doesn’t. Maybe he knows better now too. Maybe he understands that words won’t save him. Not from me.

Behind me, the guards shift slightly, adjusting their hold on her. One of them grunts. She must have tried to move again. I glance over my shoulder.

Alina is slumped against the wall, her eyes locked on mine. She doesn’t speak. Her chest rises in sharp, uneven pulls, her arms still pinned by the guards, one shoulder slightly out of place. I can see it in the angle. She fought hard. Too hard forsomeone who’s never been told no. Her dress—what’s left of it—clings to her like it’s just another trap, the shimmer of wealth wrapped around a girl who doesn’t know what safety is anymore.

I walk back toward her.

The guards tense when I approach, but I wave them off with a single flick of my hand. They release her slowly, stepping back with the hesitation of men who have held a wild animal too long. She sags to the floor, breath stuttering in her throat. Her knees buckle beneath her as if her body has finally realized no one’s coming to save her.

Her hair falls into her face, damp with sweat and tears, and the diamonds at her throat still sparkle like they don’t know they’ve lost their meaning.

I crouch down to her level. My boots settle beside the torn hem of her gown. I tilt my head.

“You fought like someone who still thought she could win,” I murmur.

She glares at me. Her mouth trembles, but she says nothing. Her eyes burn with something close to hatred, but it’s not ready yet. It’s still raw. Still confused.

“Good,” I add, softer this time. “I like women with a little fight in them.”

Her lip curls, and for a second, I think she’ll spit at me. I wouldn’t stop her. I’d take it as a gift. Defiance always precedes submission. I’d rather see fire than silence. Silence is harder to shape.

She just whispers, “You won’t get away with this.”

I smile.

Not a smirk. Not a show of teeth. Just a slow, patient curve of the mouth. I want her to feel the inevitability in it.

“That line doesn’t work here,” I tell her. “You’re not in a courtroom. You’re not in a press release. There are no cameras. No statements. Just this house. Just me.”

She looks away. Her shoulders twitch like she’s about to turn her whole body with her. I grab her chin, gently but firmly, and turn her face back to mine.

“Look at me when I speak.”

She does. Green eyes glassy, defiant, cracked. There’s so much grief behind them she doesn’t even realize it’s leaking out of her.

“Everything your father built,” I say, “every deal, every lie, every piece of paper with his name on it—I will burn it. You’ll watch it happen. Inch by inch.”

She tries to pull away. I don’t let her. I want her to hear every syllable. To absorb them like bruises.

“You’ll watch until there’s nothing left of him but that blood on the floor. Even then, I’ll keep going.”

Finally, I release her. She slumps against the wall again, exhausted, trembling. Not from cold. From rage. From grief. From humiliation. All the things that crack people open. The things that hollow them out and leave them soft inside.

I rise to my feet and turn to the guards.

“Get her to the car.”

They nod, moving to lift her again.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarls. Her voice is hoarse, shredded from screaming, but it still has teeth.

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