Page 18 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

What does he want… a ransom? A trade? Leverage? Revenge? Or worse—ownership.

The door handle rattles, snapping me upright. My breath catches, body going rigid.

It stops after one turn.

Silence again, but someone’s outside. Watching. Guarding. Waiting.

I get up slowly, pacing the room now, eyes locked on every surface, every corner, looking for something—anything—I can use. There’s nothing. No exit. No weapon. Just soft walls and expensive furniture. A gilded cage.

Think, Alina. Think.

I press my palms to the cold wood of the door again, forehead barely brushing it, breath shallow in my chest. My heart hasn’t stopped racing since I woke up in this place, but now it’s sharper—like something just beyond reach is trying to crawl into my hands.

I take a single step back, turning in slow circles around the room. My bare feet move silently across the rug, my fingers ghosting over every surface: the nightstand, the back of thevanity, the frame of the bed. The room offers me nothing. Everything is solid. Secure. Unforgiving.

Until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dark window glass, and it hits me.

My hair.

I rush back to the bed, fingers trembling as they reach up, diving into the waves of auburn that are still barely pinned into place. The twist at the back of my head is loose now, but still held with a pair of long, delicate bobby pins—dark, elegant, forgettable.

Except they aren’t forgettable. Not to me.

I pull one free with a shaky breath, holding it between my fingers like it’s made of something precious. It’s small. Delicate.

So am I, and delicate things survive by being sharp where no one expects it.

I kneel in front of the door, press my ear to the thick wood. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. The quiet holds. Maybe whoever was out there before is gone. Or maybe they’re still waiting.

Doesn’t matter. I only need seconds.

I slide the pin into the lock, hands trembling hard enough that I have to stop and breathe before trying again. Focus. Focus. I’ve seen it done before—at school, once, as a party trick. I’d laughed and called it ridiculous.

Now it might be the only way out.

The first soft click feels like a miracle. I pause. Listen again. Still nothing.

I press deeper, turn the pin just so—and the second click follows. The latch shifts beneath my hand.

I don’t exhale until the lock gives completely.

The door doesn’t swing open. I ease it, slow, holding my breath as I peer out into the hallway.

Stone walls. Wooden floors. A single pendant light hanging from the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow that stretches down a narrow corridor. No voices. No movement.

No guards, so I slip into the hall.

The air is colder here, and something about the silence feels heavier—like the house itself is watching. I pad quietly down the corridor, staying close to the wall, ears straining for any sound.

There are no windows. Just long stretches of shadow, broken by soft pools of light.

I pass two doors—one open to an empty room, the other locked tight. Then I find the stairs. Narrow, curved, leading down into deeper dark. I hesitate at the top.

My foot touches the first step—

Then I hear it.

A voice. Low. Male.

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