Page 19 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Not Andrei. One of the guards, maybe. Speaking into a phone. Russian. The cadence is unmistakable even if I can’t make out the words.

I freeze.

The voice grows louder, closer. Heavy boots move across the floor somewhere below me. If I go down now, I’ll be seen. I won’t make it three more steps.

I retreat two paces and duck into the open room I passed a moment earlier, pressing myself behind the open door.

The hallway light spills in just enough for me to see him when he appears.

A man—tall, broad, armed. Dressed in black, gun holstered at his side like it belongs there. His voice is quiet now, clipped and professional. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, checks his phone, then moves toward the opposite hall.

The moment he disappears, I move again.

Back into the corridor, down the steps with light steps, knees bent to absorb the creaks. The second floor—if that’s what it is—feels like a different house entirely. The warmth is gone. These walls are stripped down, functional. The floorboards are worn. The lights buzz faintly overhead.

I creep past a den with dark leather chairs and a lit fireplace. I don’t dare pause.

Except, I do. Only for a second—one second too long. The warmth of the fire draws my gaze. The soft crackle, the way the light flickers across the floorboards. It’s the first thing in this house that feels remotely human. Not cold. Not sterile. Not calculating.

I step inside without meaning to. Just one foot over the threshold. The air is warmer here. Quieter. I move to the edge of the rug, watching the fire dance behind the glass screen. My reflection wavers faintly in the panel, and for a moment, I don’t recognize her—the girl with bare feet and panic in her eyes, wearing someone else’s shirt like it means something.

My chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven pulls. I shouldn’t be here. Not out in the open. Not vulnerable like this. I’m disoriented. I’ve been moving through the house like a ghost, only now realizing I have no idea where I am. No idea where he is.

Or where my father is.

My knees nearly give out with the thought.

Where is he? Is he alive? Was he brought here too? Did they leave him in that house—bleeding, bound, alone?

Or is he somewhere in this house, behind some locked door, his mouth swollen shut before he could call for help?

I clutch at the fabric of the shirt, gripping the hem so tightly it cuts into my palms. I can’t leave without knowing. Not because I trust him, not because he deserves it, but because he’s mine. My blood. My father. I need to know what’s left of him.

I take another shaky step forward, eyes darting across the room. There are no photos. No clues. Just leather and shadows and books no one reads. The fire crackles again, louder this time, like it’s mocking the silence of everything else.

I backtrack toward the hallway. My hands trail the wall as I walk, fingertips grazing smooth wood, trying to keep my bearings. One corridor blends into another. The house seems to shift behind me, doors I thought I passed earlier appearing again.

Is this a maze on purpose, or am I losing my mind?

I force myself to breathe slowly through my nose, willing the dizziness to fade. Left, then right. A staircase I don’t take. Another narrow hall. A heavy mirror reflecting nothing but shadows. I keep going, until the corridor ends—dead silent and dimly lit—with a tall wooden door cracked just enough to show what’s inside.

An office.

The air smells of leather and faint cologne. The walls are lined with shelves full of thick, expensive books—some worn, some untouched. A decanter of dark liquor sits on a side table beside two chairs. The fireplace in this room is dead. Cold. The whole space hums with restraint, as if it’s daring me to breathe too loud.

The desk is massive. Wide. Made of the kind of wood that lasts for generations. It looks like the kind of desk you don’t sit behind unless you’re used to deciding who lives and who dies.

Andrei’s desk. It has to be.

A small framed photo sits on the corner, turned just slightly away from view. I inch closer. Not touching. Just looking. Two boys, young—one with a sharp jaw already, dark hair, the other leaner, lighter-eyed. Both serious. Both dressed too well for children. The photo makes my chest tighten.

One of them has to be Maxim. The other, Andrei.

So he was a normal enough person once. Not just this monster looming in doorways and issuing orders in a voice that doesn’t change no matter who’s screaming.

It doesn’t matter now. Not to me.

I stand in the doorway, fingers curled around the edge of the frame. I should leave. Go back to the bedroom and pretend I never moved. My legs won’t listen.

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